cutting myself off
Here's where we'll start, we'll start at the edges - the dried nfried edges of my long black tresses. Just a handful to start, maybe on the left side, with my red rusty kitchen scissors I'll attempt a straight line. It's harder than it looks. My hair is fine but thick and unmistakably snarled. Those snarls aren't my problem anymore, I'll cut just above the knots. A fresh start.
With each snip of the scissors my frenzy becomes more passionate, more personal. Black-tinged-with-SPLAT!-blue curtains, hanging long and lifeless, parting for my pale moon of a face. I never felt ugly, just to make things perfectly clear. I just felt claustrophobic, like the past few years were manifesting in a black cloud around my head, like I couldn't see myself in my own reflection, only the person who had made all my previous mistakes.
It's time to make new ones.
For a split second I saw a fraction of the person I was before scattered in millions of follicles of hair on my bathroom floor.
"Good."
Did I just say that out loud? Was it even me?
My eyes meet my own in the mirror and we heavy sigh together.
The cut wasn't quite enough, I could still see her.
And then at once the answer was almost too obvious. And more than an answer, it was a strike of lightning - an illuminating stroke of brilliance. I knew who I was ready to be. I always said I would wait until I got famous, but this was the clear first step. In order to truly start over I had to strip my hair of any semblance of who I was.
Two parts 30 volume developer, one part bleach.
BLONDE.
The dark abyss that swarmed my neck and shoulders were being infiltrated by the forces of light anyway. Two inches of dirty dishwater blonde protect my head like a halo, almost making me look like I'm balding in certain lights and angles. I was born from my mother a blonde, maybe it'll feel like home.
So once again I'll start at the edges. Painting myself giddy, I start laughing uncontrollably. The joy of release! This is who I am. I feel her now, and I can see her aura expand with our every breath. I see her under a crown of tinfoil, she's the queen of this shit. Fuck it, bleach the eyebrows too! Her temperature is rising. Oh yeah, she's hot. She's a mother fucking star, hotter than the Earth's sun!
Okay, maybe a little too hot.
It starts to itch.
A cascade of cool water weaves its way through my web of stiffly stripped hair. However biting the chill, the rinse solidifies the transformation. Yes, solid, but no longer made of stone. I'll stay soft this time, I swear.
Wiping away the condensation from the mirror, I see her!
Finally!
Tears of joy well my eyes and with an exhale of relief I feel something more than pride. A trine between body and soul, my newfound superficial exterior extracted the missing domino. Everything can fall smoothly into its rightful state of chaos once more.
The bitch is back.
