Our story begins with a life-changing moment in the shower.
Yip, you read that right: the shower. There I am, lathering away while contemplating life (I always do my best thinking in the shower, after all), when I was overcome by a sudden, silly urge as I reached for the shampoo bottle.
“My ends need a good trim,” I thought to myself in this moment of deep, sudsy reflection. “Since I can’t see the back of my own hair, I’ll just have Boyfriend Brett do it when I’m out of the shower.”
So silly. So simple. So soapy.
As I wrapped a towel around myself, Boyfriend Brett came bounding up the stairs to deliver a piece of warm-from-the-oven banana bread. You see, the night before, he had not one, but FOUR dreams about baking banana bread … while I had dreams about a nuclear reaction and running through an airport avoiding piles of puke left behind by radiation-poisoned people.
Seriously: Whose psyche would you rather live in?
Anyhow, back to the epiphany: I gave Brett my best “pretty please?” look complete with batting eye lashes and asked for my trim, explaining, “Just get the ends” while holding up Pointer and Thumbkin separated by no more than ¼ of an inch.
“OK,” he responds, with a kind of nonchalance that in retrospect should have been a big-ass red flag. Accented by fireworks and flares. Bathed in a glaring spotlight.
We venture out onto the balcony so the tiny, flyaway hairs can find a new happy home dancing on the wind rather than landing atop the bathroom carpet. I turn around and expose my auburn mane; he calmly, methodically brushes; then he begins to trim.
Or should I say, hack.
Because as I’m standing there wearing little more than a short robe and a lifetime of insecurities earned in three short years, all exposed and vulnerable, I feel too much hacking. I feel too much hair being amputated from my head. I quickly pull away, looking down to see the ugly, grotesque, horrific carnage splattered all over the balcony.
Hair is everywhere. Not ¼ of an inch. Not the tiny flyaway ends I expected to be sprinkled on the floor. But a veritable carpet of hair chunks measuring this length:
I run inside, gasping, practically screaming (ok, maybe actually screaming). “Oh my GOD! What did you do? Why the hell did you cut so much hair?”
“I thought that’s what you wanted,” he says, trying to reassure me in his casual, sometimes endearing, currently maddening passé tone.
“Brett, that’s more hair than I cut off in an entire YEAR! In TWO YEARS!” I yell. And yes, at this point, I’m sobbing. “My hair’s my thing! You cut off my thing!”
Fast forward 15 hours, 35 minutes and 12 seconds (Trust me: I’ve felt every second). While I’ve done my best to come to terms with the new hair, all I feel is boyish and decidedly unsexy. I curl it and feel like Shirley Temple. I flat iron it and feel like every generic minivan-driving soccer mom residing on the West Coast. But that very next day after Hair-mageddon 2011, I’m at breakfast, and the happy Mimi’s hostess delivers my oatmeal.
“Great hair!” she cheerily says.
“Fuck you, Happy Mimi’s Hostess,” I think to myself. “Fuck you very much.”
Then I look up at Brett, who’s sporting a super self-satisfied, shit-eating grin. Ear to ear.
So why do I share this cheery anecdote with you, dear readers?
Because along with the 3.5 inches of hair horrifically hacked by Boyfriend Brett, I believe my mojo went with it.
Seriously. Somehow, the ends of my hair must have contained my creative juices. Because since that moment, I’ve sat in front of the computer, drawing a total blank, time and time again. I walk around, and the usual funny thoughts that traverse my brain simply aren’t there. Every quip feels cut short; every sassiness severed; every musing, missing. Conspicuously. Like the rest of my hair.
So instead of writing, here’s what I’ve been up to.
I’ve done all my laundry. And this, my friends, deserves its own picture — documentation for posterity.
I’ve organized my camisoles and tank tops in ROY G BIV order. Because in my Type A brain, the color spectrum inspires all organizational initiatives.
I’ve even chopped and washed and stored my fruits and veggies.
Actually, I suspect there may be more at play here than writer’s block inspired by horrendous hair choppage. I heard just a few weeks ago that the court is sending the ex and me to mediation prior to our day in court. And while that may be all fine and great and awesome and totally emo and all, I’m honestly spent.
I’m so tired of fighting this battle. I’m tired of the hoops. I’m tired of my children being used as pawns in the whole mess, coming home from their dad’s and reporting, “Dad and Marilyn say you’re trying to take us away from them” and “Dad and Marilyn say someone may talk to us about where we want to live.”
Way to leave the kids out of it. Nice.
So I just want resolution. NOW. For my children’s sake, and yes, for my own sake as well.
Plus, the courts made me do this horrible, time-consuming declaration thingie that felt like a financial colonoscopy in a Katie Couric kinda way: While awake. And not anesthetized. And in public view, as I had to deliver it to my ex. Ick.
But at least I’m WAY prepared for tax season this year.
Anyhow, mediation happens Tuesday. Can’t wait. In the meantime, my personal list of Top 10 Lessons from the story above:
- Never derive inspiration from sudsy epiphanies. No good can come of it.
- If you are ever asked to “trim” someone’s hair, please pay attention to the distance between Pointer and Thumbkin. That’s a key detail.
- If you have trust issues to begin with, perhaps asking for help with something that potentially (and irreversibly) impacts “your thing” is not a good idea.
- Mimi’s oatmeal = yummy. Mimi’s hostess = dummy.
- Men…This is NOT ¼ of an inch:
- I’m worth a shitload of money if dead. And my ex and Marilyn now know this. Which makes me kinda nervous.
- My readers rock. You guys keep coming back, and you’re totally engaging in convos with one another, which allows me to sit back and stare at the computer blankly while not worrying about this dire case of writer’s block.
There you go. Seriously…7. Couldn’t even come up with 10. See how crazy constipated my writing is? Any prune juice-like advice to cause the creative juices to flow freely once again?
Or, alternatively, a totally self-serving question: Anyone know anyone who knows anyone who’s been through mediation? Just trying to anticipate the ordeal, glean feedback and gather all relevant advice before the big event. I recently told my Facebook friends that it’s like my own personal version of Kramer vs. Kramer. Only add a “fuck”-filled blog and a Marilyn Manson lookalike. And subtract Dustin Hoffman.
Plus, Meryl Streep had much more mojo — and not coincidentally, much more hair — than I currently do. About 3.5 inches more, I’m guessing.
Hell, I think the little boy in that movie had more hair than I do.
Please leave your thoughts below (as long as you’re mindful of my sensitive, precarious, delicate-like-a-flower state). In the meantime, I’m furiously researching the cost of extensions. I’m not adverse to getting my groove back the old fashioned way: How much do you suppose some good mojo goes for these days, anyhow?