Sometimes I get stuck on one subject and it begins to dominate my focus until I fix it, or figure it out, or get bored. The topic du jour is hair.
I was in a Barnes & Noble when I finalized and posted it. Bookstores, as a setting, does the soul good. I’d been there a few hours, hardly any foot traffic, so I didn’t feel bad for taking a table for so long. But ultimately, I had to visit the restroom.
For whatever reason, a glint caught my eye. I inspected. I couldn’t understand what I was seeing in the mirror, so I yanked it out of my head: A single, plain as night, silver-white hair. I gawked. Mouth wide open beneath my mask, staring, staring at this impossibility. A woman came through the door, startled by my immobility. I gave her no notice, though, as I was transfixed on my newest example of nature’s chaotic magic.
There I was, in the Barnes & Noble bathroom, having an existential crisis. I always knew it would come to this.
In a daze, I returned to my seat, further convinced that hair is bullshit.
After my ridiculous list of hair-what-have-yous, I fixated on it: it’s too long, it’s too much, have to get rid of it! The following morning, I texted my hairdresser and she slotted me in for an afternoon visit. Just like that, quick as anything.
Before we began, I told her I wanted to try a shorter cut, but I may not like it and want to go back to my Audrey Hepburn length. “I’m willing to pay for two cuts, but I want to play it safe and see if I want the length.” As soon as it was done, I knew I’d be back later. I told her as much, but we decided to give it the week (and seeing as she had another appointment walking in right after me, there wasn’t much choice).
Today, I look like a goomba. This is the same haircut I had as a 4th grader, and I’m fairly certain I destroyed all those pictures… True, I’m more self-aware now and I can make it look cute but… whoever heard of a cute goomba!?
Realizing the mistake I made, I decided to console myself with some Starbucks. Why not. Sitting in the drive through line, I found five more silver-white hairs. Ya’ll, if you’ve never seen someone have a meltdown in the car behind you, it goes something like this:
Thrashing on the steering wheel, checking one’s self in all the mirror (to ensure it’s not a trick of the light), slamming into park, screaming, hyperventilating, pulling at chunks of hair, throwing one’s glasses on the dashboard, readjusting said glasses, and looping the whole process for as long as it takes one car to order, move up a few feet, and repeat.
I’ve determined that I’ve got to get away from my current job – this is just yet another sign from my body telling me it can’t sustain, and I’ve got to listen.
On the real, though, if the lord wants to morph me into a silver fox, I will let thy will be done. Otherwise: begone, demon!