It was about this time of year—more than 20 years ago when my mom told me if I grew my hair out, for exactly one year, she would give me $100. It was June and my hair was in the beginning stages of the ever dreaded “in-between” stage. I was still in high school—a year before graduation if memory serves me right.
All but for this one challenge, I have always leaned towards short hair—I am just that kind of girl. Low maintenance, short and sassy is how I roll. But lately those words my mom offered so many years ago have been ringing in my ears; a very welcome sound as often I can’t recall what her voice sounded like. I got my hairs cut yesterday and James, my hair guru, agreed with sweetie and the majority of my facebook commenters—keep growing. So today, no major makeovers, no big hair reveals, no drama, no “ta-da!” moments.
Funny, life is a lot like that these days.
As far back as I can remember, I have always had a flair for the dramatic—I didn’t just have a mother who died, she went missing, for years—and then was found deceased. I wasn’t lesbian—I was a tricky-never-know-who-I-was-going-to-date bisexual. Having divorced parents (not über common when I was growing up) I lived at my dads AND my moms. When entering a new phase (Jesus freak, punk, glam, dark, queer, on and on…) I didn’t just half-ass it—I went all in, super fundamentalist like. I moved a lot, I hurt a lot, lived fast, took (many) chances, worked (good lord) EVERYwhere. Bold. Dramatic. Brave. Fierce. Sharp. Strong. These were oft used descriptors of me. And maybe in some sort of softer, more faintly stated way, they still are? I don’t know.
As my hair was falling onto the black cape I said to James “ugh—look at all that gray hair!” He sweetly replied something like “its the best, most beautiful highlight job you could ever ask for. Simply georgeous dear.”
I am getting older, am still growing up, and I think I like it. Amen.