Saturday, January 27, 2007
 | ... you're gonna find, yes you will... "You have this tendency to want to look up," Mathew said. "You can't do that." I apologized and promised to keep my eyes closed so I wouldn't even be tempted again. A couple minutes passed without either of us speaking; I just concentrated on the music circling the room - kind of like a Celtic Tori Amos - which struck me as appropriately soothing. I allowed myself to take it in. I really wasn't nervous. Oddly enough, I had been much more nervous the day before at SMART's staff meeting in which our CEO spontaneously declared we would go around the table and each give our thoughts about the importance of "future focus". It wasn't a big deal - just an ice breaker to get everyone talking - but I panicked. This was only my second staff meeting in my full-time position at SMART and I, still feeling like the little kid at the grown-up table at Thanksgiving, felt the need to prove myself in my allotted twenty seconds. Many random somewhat-coherent ideas collided in my head as I fiddled with the koosh ball that had been tossed in my lap. The koosh kept my trembling hands from being noticeable to the others. Ohhh my trembling hands. My f-ing tremor. It's the biggest tell-sign when I have nerves. I used to ball them up in fists when I would sing in front of my class at UNC and then consequently get a note from one of my eager classmates that I needed to release the tension in my hands. Ohhh bite me. The next day, however, sitting in the chair in a situation that in theory was much more frightening than either a SMART staff meeting or a performance in Vance's class, my breath and my hands remained steady. Moments of vanity kept pricking me as I received uncertain looks from people I told ahead of time. Their words said, "Oh how nice!" but their faces said "..um, really?" They thought it wouldn't look good. Everytime my mind entertained doubt, however, I felt all the more convicted to do it. If I were to bail because I was too afraid of not being pretty, my looks are clearly the least of my problems. Frankly, I'm tired of allowing myself to be ruled by superficiality. I spent four years in a university where students and faculty unabashedly monitored and scrutinized each other's bodies inch by inch, pound for pound. I then spent nine months working in a restaurant where sexual harrassment by the clientele was accepted and even encouraged as our skirts rose and our necklines plunged. At the same time I hung onto a threadbare (if not a complete sham) relationship with someone who consistently commented "That's not your best look" anytime I wore sweats, had a bandanna in my hair, or wasn't wearing make-up. Someone who one day pinched my stomach and told me he wanted to see what I looked like when I wasn't sucking in. Okay so the bitterness about him is really getting better, I swear. One of these days I really will stop referencing him but hey - blogging is cheaper than therapy. Anyway, his voice rang in my ear Tuesday as I sat in the chair. The longer the hair the better. Short hair isn't hot. Another echo, much more recent, and from someone new, danced in my head as well. She's beautiful. I asked her out. You're cute. I just want to be friends. The only other customer in the salon that day was a woman with gray hair, probably early fifties, who had been successfully feigning interest in her stylist's babbling about an upcoming trip to Orlando. I stood up as Mathew set my ponytail on the counter next to my purse and met eyes with her. "You're doing a really great thing," she said. I smiled as my hand went to my naked neck and mumbled something about needing a change anyway. "No, I know what a good thing you are doing," she said. "My little six year-old had cancer." I couldn't think of what to say to respond to that information, so I made some vague and slightly awkward comment about the Locks of Love organization. I wanted to ask her about her child but couldn't bring myself to do it in case her response was anything other than "Oh she's great! She's all grown-up now and has a successful career and beautiful family." My little six year-old had cancer. I keep thinking about it. The very next day I spoke with Kieley, my parents' neighbor, to firm up babysitting plans. Kieley told me their bedtimes would have to be fairly early because they were all getting up early the next morning to drive to Salem: her niece had lost her fight with leukemia last Sunday. Her eight year-old niece. It took about two and a half years for my hair to get that long and now, bearing a frightening resemblance to a dead rodent, it sits in a Ziploc bag on my dresser. From end to end it measures almost a foot. I'm still worried people won't like the way it looks, that no one will think I'm pretty, but it's done now and the stars are definitely aligning to tell me that it's the right thing. My New Year started a few weeks later than everyone else's this year, but that doesn't mean I'm not taking my resolutions seriously. I've had enough introspection in the last six months or so and it's time to finally start acting on my words. I'm not scared; my hands aren't even shaking. At this very moment I sit in a little place in Sisters listening to Argentine reggae and taking blog breaks to chat with two more special chicas, Ruth and Maria. I feel warmth and beauty in me and around me, and I wonder where I can go next to discover more. |
peaceful
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