Haircut

I call it the Jo March moment. It's that split second when your friend says, "You cut your hair?!" and you get an adrenaline rush from the most correctable of mistakes. It's even better when you cut your own hair (as long as you do it decently) because there's not an option of saying, "You got your hair cut?" No, the praise and blame for this decision lie squarely with you. You've grabbed attention. Enjoy it. 

Hair grows. That's what the practical side of me says. I was ready for a change. I'm always ready for a change. I'm never satisfied with my hair. What I need, really, is a stylist who can craft perfection into my locks, who can perfect the curls or the flip of my hair to match the flawless makeup someone else applies so that my face fits in with the snug yet flattering clothing that someone else has picked out for me. I need a makeover so I know how the mask sets. That way I know how to make the heads turn and how not to. I can be in control of the way I'm looked at. 

I know that betrays a pile of misconceptions about how the world works. The people who care are going to care regardless of how I look. The power that I get from my appearance is only skin deep and has to be backed up with positive character attributes. If I wear a mask, I'm only putting up a barrier that someone else has to get through. There's a truth to the person we are in the morning, without the layers of who we've been during the day. 

But I want to be beautiful by anyone's standard. I want to know that there's not some deficiency for which I'll need to make up. The human race is shallow. There are studies to back that up. I just want to be on the winning side of evolution here. I was never envious in high school. I rejected this game. But damn, do I wish I could change that now. I would sell a portion of my soul for the confidence that well-applied eyeliner and a perfectly-fitting bra bestows, to be assured that no matter what happens today, it will not be my physical appearance placing limitations on what I can achieve. 

Besides, I like the way my eyes look with eyeliner on. I hate how right the magazines are, but I like the way my eyes pop. 

This is the line I walk every time I think that we're properly embodied, that we'd be missing something if we were all just minds interacting with one another. I'd love just being a mind, probably because I'm much more aware of my mental appeal. Then again, there's something to this sensation thing, something profound about being tied to the ground by the parts of you that can see and touch and taste and smell. But along with sensation come all the problems of beauty and perception that are piled on us when we're forced to interact with the forward-facing aspects of another person. Some days I think I could give up the sense of touch if it meant never being judged on how well my jeans fit. All the stuff I like most in the world are things I see and hear anyway. I could be a brain in a jar as long as light and sound information could be transferred back to me. 

Listen, sometimes it's just a haircut. Sometimes it's just a quotidian tidying up around the edges, a maintenance of appearances without a thought to the underlying social norms being upheld. I'm sure I'll land on that understanding of it someday soon. Probably.