The Hair

And so I found myself in a chair with my eyes closed and my face in a silent scream as a piece of me died. Or pieces rather. Thousands of long fine brunette pieces. Denis, the dainty Filipino hairdresser flitted and tittered about how “AmAA-zinG” (hard G) it was. All the time severing cords that tied me to old lies and memories. Courage tightened in my chest and I could scarcely breathe as the chains dropped feather-light in dying screaming clumps to the growing darkness on the floor. Blow dry. Flat iron. Spray this, rub that. It was only when I opened my eyes that I realized how much of me I had let them kill.
Yup a future can be killed. And a future is such a painful thing to lose. The loss of it can knock you to the mat, jaw slackened, sweat soaked and brain shaken like Rocky. Losing sight of tomorrow can keep the strongest woman turning feverishly with no hope of relief in nightmare soaked sheets. Even the taste of food becomes synthetic and rubbery and salty with… grief.
The future is our own personal myth, tainted by our identities and perceptions of our purpose. A glorious picture that the little girls inside us all sit and color in our daydreams then project like a mirage that we walk toward one stiletto in front of the other. And then it disappears. In the time it takes for him to close the space between his vile disloyal hand and her unwitting (and worse willing) body. Our hard work at being perfect irreplaceable partner couldn’t prevent it. Our forgiveness and ladylike behavior couldn’t fix it.
And then we weep and mourn, call our girlfriends and go into therapy…
SCREW THAT. Enough is enough. My girlfriends need a break. I have a lost a future every few months for the last two or four years. It is time to set practical goals. The first one was to take matters into my own hands. Or, more correctly, into Denis’ hands. So deep breath, it’s over, let’s do this. I need to erase the images that my photographic memory replay in unguarded moments. Images of long brown hair splayed out on his shoulder. Or his hand, the one that later would do treason, sifting its way through the mess of my morning hair, or my shower hair, or my evening hair, or my swimming pool hair… it had to go. Cut the tainted strands off.
The hair is now somewhere between Halle Berry and Nancy Grace. Time for a new goal before I end up with a fade!
And here I am at the making of this resolution – I will not become romantically┬áinvolved with a man until my hair touches my shoulders again. And here in this blog I will record my journey through trims and relapses (inevitable), adventures and discoveries, and the construction of my new future.
Until my hair reaches my shoulders…

Somewhere between Halle Berry and Nancy Grace