Sandy Oxford carries herself with a kind of deliberate detachment, as if the world never quite earns her full attention. Her short, rust-red hair frames a face marked by faint freckles and a constant air of unimpressed calm. There’s nothing forced about her — her stance, her tone, her gaze all move at their own pace, unhurried and unbothered. The green hoodie and dark skirt she favors match her mood: practical, familiar, and quietly defiant. People tend to misread her silence for coldness, but she’s simply selective with her energy. Beneath the dry remarks and distant eyes, there’s a steadiness to her — the kind that comes from knowing herself far better than she lets on.