Monday, January 28, 2013

Oo-ooh Child, Things are Gonna Get Easier

Getting my hair cut has been a series of traumatic events for me throughout my life. I've usually only felt good when it's long and stringy. When I was quite young I got a shoulder length cut. My dad, didn't talk to me for two weeks. He was very upset and made me aware of his disappointment in me. Now thinking back, what a bizarre reaction from a dad. I don't remember why or who's decision it was to get it cut, maybe a suggestion by my sister M who always said my head smelled like a dog, but I know I regretted it deeply afterwards. I remember feeling so crushed. How could my hair have such a strong effect on my life? Deeming me almost unloveable? Dang, that's too deep for a kid.

When I was 16 and in an awkward stage of late puberty I also chopped off my hair into a bob AND doubled-down on a really bad boxed permanent. Tight frizzy curls that seemed to grow like a Chia pet diagonally in the summer humidity. Needless to mention, this did nothing for my already lackluster confidence. My body had not received the memo that it was supposed to be developing and making me irresistible to boys. No, but instead I did acquire a patch of whiskers which gave me something in common with the boys in class! And a fierce case of measles that took me down another 10 lbs or so from my recent appendectomy, weighing me in at about 85 soaking wet. Not a great look, skinny, sickly, with very bad hair. It didn't help that I was already a small framed Mexican American in a town of healthy German and Irish decent girls that seemed to all form ginormous boobs at 13 and sprout up to heights not even my uncles had achieved.

Never being one to learn from my mistakes, back in 2004 I thought it was a great idea to get a multi-layered loose perm. Doesn't exist by the way. Almost as if an alien took over my mind, made me forget all the past trauma and replaced it with a passion for the dumbest idea ever! And trust, trust of a very bad stylist in the neighborhood. That whole event is almost too fresh to talk about so I'll just say one word. Unspeakable.

You have to cut your hair eventually even if you're Crystal freakin' Gayle. Mine was getting ridiculously long interfering with bodily functions and whatnot. I don't want to go into the whole story. Mainly because I think I left my body halfway through the experience so I don't even remember the sequence of events. I know beforehand I was considering a real cut, something new, something different, passing pics to the stylist. She had cut it before, a friend, past co-worker who had got her license and now worked at a salon fittingly called Revolver in Soho. Words were formed somehow, payments were made. All a mystery. The only thing I have now are pictures. Proof that I was there. And my hair. I probably lost a foot, slightly more. Does it look good? Do I feel better? No and no. End of story. Am I over it? Yes.

Many areas of my life, I am not one bit good at. I wear the most horrible coats. I never have cute scarves or matching anything. I don't know how to relate to most other women or form healthy friendships. I'm a discombobulated human and barely manage to get through an average day. Normal women get haircuts and manicures and spa treatments and have luncheons with friends on a regular basis. Will I ever be that girl? It's not looking good at this stage.

But somehow in all of this seemingly endless lists of failures, I have become better at my attempts for making Asian cuisine. Beef with broccoli stir fry, a little slurry for glisten at the end. I overcooked the broccoli so it wasn't perfect but I'm getting there. Something I never thought I'd accomplish.

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