Tuesday, June 10, 2014
Who I am...
Who I am is a head full of strawberry blonde hair.
Who I am is growing my hair out long, longer, longest for my wedding day.
Who I am is a short sassy pixie cut bleached blonde.
Who I am is a baseball cap worn over a scarf when I go running.
Who I am is a fedora worn to a party.
Who I am is a big floppy hat worn to the beach on a summer day.
Who I am is shame and fear and rage as the drain once again fills up with my hair.
Who I am is holding a mirror to see the giant bald spot on the right side of my head.
Who I am is remembering.
Who I am is crying tears shed over the same condition. We can call it chronic now.
Who I am is home highlight kits and sun-in.
Who I am is trips to to the salon: cuts, texturizing, high and low lights.
Who I am is products that line my shower and fill my drawers: soy paste, pomade, sprays, gels, shine.
They mock me now. Unnecessary when you wear a wig.
Who I am is googling alopecia and searching for a magic pill.
I'll swallow it, rub it on my head, smoke it, eat it, roll my body in it.
I'll drive across country for it, sell my soul again for it.
I read aloud in a room filled with like-minded souls. We call ourselves artists.
I shared my story, believing I was on the other side of it. You can be brave when you think it's over.
I smiled and cried and felt outer body.
I told you it didn't fucking matter.
Is my story still valid?
I swallow the pills, blue and white, several times per day. I can't help but wonder if they help or harm me.
What would this world look like if hair didn't define a person? Or clothes? Or the size of your nose or whiteness of your teeth? Or the shape of your ass or thighs?
What if when you looked at me or I looked at you, I'd SEE you...See through to your heart and hear your story?
Only bad ass bitches have the balls to shave their head.
I pick up the remains and silently glue them back onto my head.
They morph and change and move back into place where each strand will remain.
I am looking in the mirror and I look normal.
What the hell does "normal" look like?
I've fought against "normal" my whole life, but get real, that's all anyone wants to be.