I got my hair cut today. I’ve never really been into putting whatever level of effort would be required into making my hair look good. It would involve hair dryers and styling products and more regular visits to the salon than I care to bother with. And so my hair doesn’t usually look exactly fantastic. Such is life. However, the last few months, it’s been bugging me more and more, and I have been very close on a number of occasions to borrowing clippers and shaving my head down to a half-inch or so. Just be done with it. Dispense with caring, dispense with vanity. I never did that.
Yes, I made the appointment for the cut after the breakup, but it’s largely irrelevant. At most it was a mild catalyst. Fuck it, just get it done already. Anyway. I don’t love it. I didn’t cry at the salon or anything. I don’t know what I was hoping for. Sexy? Intriguing? Something. Fuck, I do know what I was hoping for. I just don’t want to feel ugly anymore.
I have felt beautiful. I know I have. But I don’t remember how it feels. I haven’t felt it in so long I don’t remember. I don’t even remember when I started feeling ugly. When I first looked in the mirror and what I saw wasn’t good enough. Indication #305450298 that there’s something wrong with your relationship, I guess. Isn’t having someone who loves you supposed to make you feel good about yourself? There’s the rub, I suppose. No one did love me, at least not the way that’s required to make you feel beautiful. To make it visible on your face that you know you’re loved.
God, how horribly guilt-tripping and accusatory that sounds. Not what I meant. At least I hope it isn’t. It’s not so black and white. I never did for myself, either. I didn’t make much of an effort to be someone I saw in the mirror and liked the looks of. It’s not like he’ll care shouldn’t ever be an excuse, right or wrong. Ahh well, get it out of my head, all of it, so it doesn’t make me insane. Be embarrassed later. Another bad day, I guess. Yesterday was better than this.
There has only been one person I was ever with who was good at compliments and gave them out freely, sincerely, and honestly. If that’s something you can be considered good at, he was. Ironically, he meant the least to me of anyone I’ve ever been with. Discounting him, I can count the compliments from significant others that I remember from the last eight? ten? years on my fingers. And have fingers left over. Perhaps I’ve forgotten some, but I don’t think so. When you notice their absence, you very acutely remember their presence. It’s one of the things that’s always gotten me wondering, when things have ended with someone, if something’s wrong with me. Getting harder to convince myself that there’s not.
Wow. Never intended to write whatever this is when I sat down. I just wanted to figure out how I felt about my haircut. I was already pretty sure it wasn’t a raging success, I just hadn’t actually faced before how much I’ve apparently been hating existing in this skin. If you cry hard enough, does the poison drain out? A little?