My feet sweat in my sneakers.
My t-shirt pulled under my arms.
My hair rubbed at my neck.
I tucked, pulled, squished, shrugged.
I could not get comfortable.
I wanted to rent my garments from my body and my hair from its roots.
I burned out the last of the caffeine scrubbing in the shower and fidgeted into bed with a foggy plan forming.
I dropped my last daughter off at preschool after a harried rush to the others’ bus stop.
And waited in line with the other little old ladies in front of the walk-in salon.
I chopped my hair.
I spent the remainder of the morning scouring sale racks for totally new togs.
I squandered the entire morning, returning to the preschool just in time for their singing debut in front of the senior luncheon.
The teachers, the secretary, my neighbors – all did double takes.
How brave you are, they said.
How different you look, they said.
How great it looks, they exclaimed.
I felt like it was an act of desperation. The only grip on unpredictability I can grasp right now. To leave as one thing and come back as another. To blow off all responsibilities and should-dos for one morning in exchange for a few no-need-fors.
My daughter didn’t flinch.
It looks beautiful, Mommy, she said.
I don’t know if that spells success or failure for my desperate mission.
3 thoughts on “Desperate Measures”
I’m sure your hair looks beautiful. I can’t wait to see you. Sometimes we just need to try something different.
Sometimes chopping off our hair is the only thing that helps, and it can be liberating.
It somehow felt like a passive-agressive stab at what was really bothering me. Whatever that was. I should probably try to figure that out and face it head on!