It seems to me that my hair doesn’t grow, for these extended periods of time, then suddenly and all at once, I wake up with half inch roots.
I know it doesn’t actually work that way, but it feels like it. So does my life. Nothing, nothing, nothing, wait for it… earth shattering kaboom.
½ inch roots are not earth shattering.
I have noticed, in the past few years I have gone from 50% grey/white/silver to (on the top anyways) about 80%.
I realllly want to grow it out.
I’ve tried, a few years ago, to get white streaks, lighten my hair from the box black it is, and I don’t like it. I feel washed out.
I want to try that silver/white wax stuff, see if I can ease my transition. Cutting it is not optional and I have a small head, so hats and scarves are a no.
Also, I’m kinda afraid I will look older.
Or… (scary drum roll) my age.
I will try the wax, or a wig (ew) or perhaps get some extensions, but those seem like such a pain.
I will have to relearn how to do my makeup. Or learn. I’ve been doing the same thing for 20+ years, both with my face and my hair.
I am breaking out.
Not in a metaphorical way, like I have pimples right now, lots of them.
Weather has dictated I haven’t been outside as much as I’d like, although I have gotten some sun and I am glowing sorta, under the pimples.
My eating habits are fairly deplorable on a good day and that hasn’t changed. So that ain’t it.
I bought some new make-up. I am actually considering learning how to apply it like the fancy girls on YouTube and Instagram.
That is probably it.
Also I feel like I am ready to shed my skin again.
I have gone through my closet and gotten rid of old things that don’t serve me. Went through the filing cabinets in my mind too, and let go of a lot.
But that doesn’t usually denote a break out like this. That’s just a Tuesday every few months or so.
I got carded at a bar the other day. The waiter was high as a kite, with squinty pothead eyes.
He wasn’t really carding me I don’t think. But still. Flattering. I will take it and say thanks.
I also have a tan right now and the bags under my eyes seem to be permanent, I have had enough sleep 3 or 4 times in the last 2 years since they appeared. I am soul tired and bone weary. It’s been a long journey and I am only halfway there.
I don’t know why I look young, maybe I’s the acne.
I would rather pimples than wrinkles to be totally honest.
I drink, I smoke, I sit in the sun. I wash my face with whatever soap is closest to the sink, whenever I remember to do so.
If you were to look at pics of me from my farm life, I look older then and we are heading into the 7th year since my liberation from perdition.
Maybe I am a walking Roald Dahl quote “A person who has good thoughts cannot ever be ugly. You can have a wonky nose and a crooked mouth and a double chin and stick-out teeth, but if you have good thoughts they will shine out of your face like sunbeams and you will always look lovely.”
I am notably more attractive when I am happy. But I think that is normal.
Joan Crawford directly attributed a clear complexion to regular and good sex…oh there it is. Haven’t gotten laid lately.
For the record the last two were 22.
Maybe I am feeding off their youth.
General consensus is I don’t look 43.
And in no way do I feel 43.
Some days, post car crash, my body says we are 80. It has become time to return to yoga, I know this. My bones and muscles arguing with my nervous system at every movement. I have good days too.
My heart is a toddler, we have established this. Vagina a greedy teenager and my brain either a hamster spinning out or some mystic mage who has been here a thousand years.
I’m changing again, I can feel it. Breaking out could be metaphorical as well.
But it’s retrograde so I resemble a caged tiger who knows how to unlock the gate but is biding her time, just pacing and resting and getting ready.
Or the rocket that was supposed to launch 20 miles away yesterday. It has been postponed.
I have no doubt it will get where it’s going and that there is a tiger in me somewhere that will be unleashed. I never lock her cage.
When that Swain Boy asked me to remind him how old I was, he asked 34 or 43. I answered truthfully. Shortly thereafter, I stopped hearing from him.
I get it.
Doesn’t make it less ouchy. But in his defense, there was a lot of drinking involved the first 2 times we met, so I understand why that particular fact didn’t stick. Also, we usually only hear what we want to hear. Like, I specifically remember telling him and I definitely remember him saying he didn’t care, it’s just a number. But when you take the closeness out of the equation and are functioning solely on memories, sometimes it’s easier to find fault so you can walk away and stop the yearning.
In actuality when spun right, I can find the silver lining.
I usually do.
Maybe, just maybe, he actually was looking to see if some kind of future was possible.
Maybe I am full of shit, maybe he was full of shit.
Seems to be the norm. But I don’t know. The idea that he was just a fuckboy doesn’t taste like truth.
It was something else.
It might be a mystery that never gets solved.
Same with my face/life/everything, it just is what it is.
I will take it and say thanks.