In Irish, my name means “wise one.” In Scottish, my name means “Hay’s meadow.” My name is like the number 13 or 16. The cold, dark numbers. Light brown, like the sunburnt grass in a large meadow.  

It smells like mint. The mint that is overly minty. The kind of gum you give your friends who annoyingly ask you for gum every day. It’s cold like the cement floor of a cellar or like the snowy peak of a mountain.

My name is cold and dark like space. And I am named after a comet. Haley's comet. That comes once a lifetime. But my parents spelled it differently. They added the i. 

But I am not cold and dark. I am not minty or sunburnt. 

My friends call me hazel, after my eyes—Joyful and violet. My mom still calls me hailey-bug—light pink, bright and peaceful. My dad calls me Hailey-bailey—a blue ice skating rink. My brother calls me Haybail—red, and loud. My sister calls me Hailey-Bailey—Green and dull. 

But I am not red, green, or blue. I am not dull or loud. 

If I could change my name, I would change it to Reagan. In Irish, it means “little ruler.” A chunky and full name. It's an old name—but a warm one. Warm like a friendly fire on a cold, snowy day. Like the number 7. Mysterious and majestic.  

But I’m glad my name is Hailey. Less chunky and full than Reagan is. I may not be minty, dark, or sunburnt. Red, green, or blue. But I am still Hailey. Bright and colorful.