so, if you haven’t figured it out yet, i’m crazy.
but really, i should have known this since forever. ‘cause the signs were there. i mean, i was cutting my hair since about age five.
oh i’m sorry, you didn’t know about that? yeah, two of the sure signs you are crazy:
1. you talk to yourself
2. you cut your own hair
right now my hair is in a kind of “Mia Farrow” thing. which is cute. today. tomorrow i may hate it, but for now it will do. some days it’s more Sharon Stone, some days punk rocker, and some days i do the wet slicked back look. hot. of course, if you catch me in the morning, i’ll have the whole Christopher Walken thing going, but hey, he’s pretty great so that’s ok.
i love my hair. i complain about it all the time, but i’m really lucky to have hair that can be as crazy as i am. i actually dated a guy for a while (boy, i could stop that sentence right there and have people shocked. really? you dated before?) but this guy wanted to ask me out specifically because of my hair. he saw me when i was at work, and he said every day for two weeks i had a different hairdo and that was it; he had to ask me out.
i wonder if that’s how i got my first boyfriend, Alan Frasier. i started cutting my hair back in kindergarten, and i guess i didn’t yet have the finesse with my stubborn cowlick (now i just part creatively) so it’s pretty clear in my class picture who the beautician was. ooops. still, i managed to boyfriend-up the cutest, tallest, smileyest guy in my class, who also had the best hair of the bunch of boys.
so is it the whole birds-of-a-feather thing? not saying you are crazy, Alan, just that, well maybe our mutually awesome heads of hair attracted each other. J
When I was thirteen I tried to kill myself. I was in seventh grade the first time I tried, and just continued dabbling with the idea off and on for a year or so. I’d probably been suicidal for a while; and at the very least depressed for a good many years. The first time I actually remember trying to cut myself I was around five, and stood in the kitchen by myself with a butter knife, ready to do some serious arterial damage. Of course, it would have taken me an awfully long time to draw blood with a butter knife, but look, I was only five, I wasn’t schooled in the proper techniques of murder and suicide. By the time I was in seventh grade I’d at least figured out that I should use some type of sharp instrument. Had my family made more money, I might have had a nice little razor blade to injure myself with. As it was, my family was on the poor side, so we had nothing but disposable razors in the house.
There I was, with my little pink Daisy razor with the flowers all over it, slicing away at my wrists, getting the feel of suicide in my bones. The skin cut easier than I thought, and hurt less than I expected. The slight sting was more tantalizing than scary, and the blood oozing out was rather intoxicating. These first few times I cut were more flirtations with danger than real attempts at death, but they got me hooked fast. The adrenaline in my body, the tension in my muscles, the power I felt over SOMETHING in my life was a sort of intense little window of possibility, where the world lay open for me, and it was MY choice to live or expire. In my world, having a choice was not common. Tempting myself with death became a particularly seductive past time. It meant freedom.
I began cutting my ankles along with my wrists. The veins on my ankles were puffy and prominent, and I began to imagine that if I managed to kill myself this way, perhaps I would end up in the local news as some sort of two minute celebrity for a bizarre and tragic departure. Girl dies at age 13, wrists and ankles bloody pulps. I also took pills, though, because I wasn’t just into cutting. I actually did want to get out of my life situation, and if that meant getting out of life, I was amenable to that.
If I had known back then how bizarre and interesting my life would be, I can’t say for sure that I would have made the same decisions. Today it is raining heavily, the cloud cover so dark it feels like it is nine o’clock at night, when it is only lunch time for me. There is a dark, moody feel about the day; somber, pensive, romantically deep. My life is full of these moments – full of intensely beautiful days where the sky is so blue it hurts my mind, and the contentment in my heart seems unique to humanity. There are days where I feel desolate, empty, unloved and barren. Days that I wonder how anyone can choose to love me because I am such a challenge and an emotional roller coaster.
But this is life. Up, down, inside, outside, colorful, dark, dramatic, silly, intense, monotonous, and spectacular. Every year the trees change colors before my eyes in a wonderful parade of life and death. Every year the sun comes back in the spring, coaxing hiding animals and tiny buds on trees to burst open with hope and life, and continue the cycle that has been going forever.
Had I known about these wonders when I was thirteen – about broken hearts and dreams dashed to pieces; about disappointments and sorrows, love lost and love expiring; about passion and desire and intimacy; about laughter and acceptance and people that love you enough to talk to you in the morning when you have Christopher Walken hair – I would have laid my Daisy razor down in the shower, and kept it for shaving. I would have spared my skin the worry and nervousness. I think. Because life is hard, and wicked, difficult and damaging. But the beauty in life – and the POTENTIAL beauty – is worth the risk.
Life is an accidental and beautiful happiness.