Fresh Start

Another friend told me how long my hair was getting today and asked if I was going to keep it.  So many people comment on it.  They don’t realize that I hate it this long.  I needed a haircut in August.  The plan was to get one for the vacation that didn’t happen.  Then the world stopped.  For a while it was that I didn’t want to sit down with my hairdresser and have her ask all the “how is your family” questions.  We usually have a good visit while I’m there and it takes a long time because I go so seldom.  I didn’t want to make small talk;  I didn’t want to lie ;  and I didn’t want to bawl in the salon. 

Now, it’s a bit different.  When I answered today, I said that I don’t want anyone to think, “Oh, Michelle got her hair cut, she must be feeling better.  I thought about the conversation a lot this afternoon.  I kept wondering, “Do I really care that much about what people think?”  After stewing over it and trying to figure it all out, I came to the conclusion that it isn’t that other people will see a haircut as a fresh start.  It’s that I see it that way and I don’t want a fresh start.  My hair is longer than it has been in 13 years and it’s limp and ugly and I don’t do anything with it.  It’s a symbol for how I feel and I don’t want to tell myself or Ian that I am ready to feel better so I don’t want to look better.  Disheveled is the look I’m comfortable with right now.

Who knows when I’ll feel like cutting my hair.  I won’t ever feel like moving on.  If I could wear all black and a veil over my face I probably would.  It would be nice to have one of those flags that families put in their windows during WWII that signified they’d lost their son or a pin for my lapel that lets people know that they really shouldn’t mess with me because I don’t really feel like I have much to lose.  Like  “My day can’t get any worse, so bring it on!” 

I hope it’s not like the people in the New Testament who want everyone to know they’re fasting so they make themselves look miserable.  I hope I’m not showing with my appearance how sorry I feel for myself—even though I do.    I hope it’s not some pathetic cry for help signaling to people “Hey, I’m mourning.  Aren’t you supposed to be comforting me?  Isn’t that what you signed on for when you became a Christian?”  That would be wrong.  It would be great if I could interpret my own feelings, but for now I just don’t want to look bright and chipper and well-kept until I feel that way.