Your parents, the ever-intellectual and cultured Pearlmans, had no idea where your sudden burst of punk culture came from. It wasn’t like you had very many friends, and when you weren’t out, they tried to keep you studying. You knew four languages and all about archaeology like your father did. You knew more about music than anyone in the Pearlman family, but… somehow that eventually evolved into punk music.

It wasn’t long before you learned how to hid yourself a stick-n-poke, pierce your own nose, and dye your hair. When your father’s international student, an American named Oliver, arrived at your summer home in Northern Italy, your hair was black. He didn’t suspect it was an unnatural color, even upon seeing the piercings on your face.

But late one night, Oliver returned from a party in town and he came into your shared bathroom to take a piss. But as soon as he opened the door he saw you sitting on the sink counter, your hair and your hands covered in the neon of your hair dye. Your radio is next to you and turned up fairly loud. A classic 1980s punk, he realized.

“Whoa,” he says. “That’s a pretty bold color. Do your parents know you’re rebelling like this?” He’s got a snark to him, a twinkle in his eye as he leans against the doorframe with his arms crossed.