“It’s like forgetting the words to your favorite song, you can’t believe it, you were always singing along”
November 11, 2011 § 1 Comment
Among the many things Honie and I have inherited from my mother, none garners more envy than our hair. We have great fucking hair: it’s thick, shiny, low maintenance, and grows at a ridiculous rate. I once had a stylist, upon hearing my request for a bob, morph in to a crisis negotiator, becoming feverishly adamant that I do no such thing.
Did I mention it’s super thick? I’m talking use-both-hands-to-measure-circumference thick. It’s problematic because it gets intensely heavy – and it’s when my hair gets long and thick enough to give me reoccurring headaches that I finally give in and schedule for a cut. And with a throbbing scalp, I tell myself that THIS will be the time I bob it, that not only would it be practical (as it would remove all the weight), but a change would do me some good. I equip myself with photos of celebrities who spend my monthly grocery budget with one haircut, envisioning that it could be easily replicated at a laughable fraction of the price.
But in that chair, whether persuaded by the stylist or not, I panic and choke… and I leave with the slightest of trims, indistinguishable to anyone I don’t explicitly inform.
As expected (and as I come down from the initial new-hair high), I kick myself for giving up another chance to try something new, and wonder why I continue to do so, regardless of the fact that I felt so convinced prior to. And of course this line of questioning always leads to something that goes far past my split ends, into dark and crippling territory about everything I’ve failed to do. The truth is, I talk about doing a lot of things, but because of whatever reason – whether it be fear or missed opportunity – I simply, don’t.
You see, planning and talking about big change is super easy to do. You can draw out the most elaborate proposal, pump yourself up, and just as easily convince yourself that you are indeed, convinced.
But when it comes for time of action? Motivation and courage suddenly get sideswiped by reason and rationality: What’s the likelihood this plan could fail? Is it worth giving up everything you know and have? Suddenly, holes appear in that seemingly solid block of confidence of yours, and that’s when familiarity coaxes you to come back, reassuring you that what you have really isn’t that bad.
And in all likelihood, what you have probably isn’t that bad, and reason isn’t the enemy here. It’s reason that talks us down from doing impulsive things, like buying ridiculously expensive underwear (who’s really going to see it?) and getting a tattoo on your face (duh).
It’s reason that ultimately saves my wallet and prevents me from getting disowned by my parents. Reason saves me from getting haircuts that would make me look like a reincarnation of Dora the Explorer. Reason keeps me from making too many stupid and regrettable choices. Reason is what distinguishes me as a functioning member of society, and not, say, a sociopath.
So what’s with the guilt that comes with letting reason do its thing?
For me at least, it’s because I think that anything worth taking a chance must come with a high risk for it to be worth anything at all. I get so stuck in the mindset that change must come at big and bold intervals, something dramatic and drastic, for it to count as considerable change. And how wrong could I possibly be? Why do I think it’s so shameful to get layers than to chop it all off?
We get so bogged down with taking enough chances and not taking enough chances that we forget that it’s not one or the other sometimes. We measure our success and failures only when the payoff is severe and extravagant. We get disappointed and depressed when we set lofty goals, without putting in the work to make it attainable. We don’t give ourselves enough credit when we take those baby steps, because they’re not as impressive to acknowledge. We obsess over instant gratification and become shortsighted, until we lose all grasp on what we wanted in the first place.
We can’t appreciate the smaller victories until we redefine our perimeters for the word itself. And we have to work in conjunction with reason, so that we don’t sabotage ourselves from the get-go.
My bone structure does not and will not support a bob or a pixie cut, no matter how cute Carey Mulligan makes it look. This does not make me a chickenshit for not trying. It simply means I need find alternative ways to solve the objective, which was never to have short hair; it was always about making it less heavy, so that I don’t have to pull out the Advil as much.
And so I haven’t submitted anything to Esquire or Vanity Fair yet. But I’ve posted more blog entries in this past month than I have in the past three.
You’ve got to start somewhere, right?
soopastryheart 
Thank you for this.