I almost cut all my hair off
yesterday, there was a sign for Locks for Love on the door to my classroom. It pointed down the hall. I followed the infinite chain of signs around the corner, down a corridor. Each egged me on and asked if I had the heart to do it. Continuing sign to sign, will and trepidation rose. Each marker was a test of courage. Could I challenge Ecclesiastes' all is vanity. There was time to wonder "Do I dare?" Time to turn back and descend the winding stair. Then I was there, arrived at the the moment movie heroines with consciences come to where they decide to make a change, a break, and cut off all their hair.
It's been a week for wild decisions. Visions and revisions of me arise as advising seeks to see and suit me. Dress me up, cloth me in interesting conceptions, reflections of the observer and the observed of all observers merge and multiply. I am prescribed summers like growth hormones for the soul.
Mr. Mark Darcy tells Bridget-Lizzie he likes her just as she is. Imperfect I am prepared to change, prepared to pay the cat price which is to die again and again, each time with no less pain. But editing or evolution is a process. I'm in no need of hurrying the inevitable. Not out for a runaway from myself to grow greater. After careful consideration, excessive deliberation, I do not choose to break with strands of hair and history. This is not that kind of movie.
Thinking of my kids at Camp Sunshine, standing in the doorway facing scissors, glancing at girls with clipped wings glaring in mirrors, I saw the beauty of having short hair. The giving girls' hair looked beautiful, bound into a wig, bound for a kid who went to chemo. So sometime soon I'll do it, but not out of desperation to change. Not to force a moment of separation. Separation from and separation as creation of a new identity. Only personal growth I worry to hasten is hair.
It's been a week for wild decisions. Visions and revisions of me arise as advising seeks to see and suit me. Dress me up, cloth me in interesting conceptions, reflections of the observer and the observed of all observers merge and multiply. I am prescribed summers like growth hormones for the soul.
Mr. Mark Darcy tells Bridget-Lizzie he likes her just as she is. Imperfect I am prepared to change, prepared to pay the cat price which is to die again and again, each time with no less pain. But editing or evolution is a process. I'm in no need of hurrying the inevitable. Not out for a runaway from myself to grow greater. After careful consideration, excessive deliberation, I do not choose to break with strands of hair and history. This is not that kind of movie.
Thinking of my kids at Camp Sunshine, standing in the doorway facing scissors, glancing at girls with clipped wings glaring in mirrors, I saw the beauty of having short hair. The giving girls' hair looked beautiful, bound into a wig, bound for a kid who went to chemo. So sometime soon I'll do it, but not out of desperation to change. Not to force a moment of separation. Separation from and separation as creation of a new identity. Only personal growth I worry to hasten is hair.
