Today I had to introduce myself a lot. Answer get-to-know-you questions. My youngest sister was annoyed to be asked if she had a boyfriend and which college she's wanting to go to, but that's nothing compared to having a pretty pile of debt and a couple degrees under your belt while explaining to people that you're in a minimum wage job. "I sell shoes." The subject, among women, thankfully shifted to my tiny black pat pointed stilettos. My toes were numb and feverish.
My sister, after twenty minutes kicked off her mint sued pumps and ran around the basement-like congregation hall with tears in her eyes, hugging and thanking everyone who showed for the reception. Supremely happy and overwhelmed, her eyes welled at the opening of each glitter dusted card. Her happiness was the rare, contagious sort. Even if you're the slightest bit envious you can't help but want to be nearer and nearer to the one smiling, laughing and joking, positively glowing from the inside out, and that she was. Her white dress flared away from her body like a shade for her illuminated skin. I, in my black sheath that showed my every jaunty angle considered taking a seat near the contractor bags in the corner stuffed with plastic cutlery, cups, and plates and paper.
Instead, I leaned back in my aluminum folding chair, nibbling m&ms and snapping pictures. I'm rotten, I know, but one girl's wedding shower is another's apartment warming party. I could picture my Black Cherry lipstick neatly printed on the rim of her pretty set of Anchor glasses and smearing my mascara on her fluffy new cream colored towels after a steamy shower.
"She's moving in with us in the fall!" My sister explained to a particularly pushy member of the church. "We've got a two-bedroom apartment. She's bringing her cat."
"Oh," she responded with confusion. "will you be going to the college, then?"
"Oh... Um. No. Just working."
I felt like a nuisance. I'm moving in with my newly wed younger sister. With my cat. I felt the woman's eyes scanning me, looking for a clue. Some disability. Handicap... some sign of lesbianism, perhaps? I couldn't answer any questions regarding a true plan of action.
"Well then, let me invite you to our church. I hope you'll accept."
"Oh, thank you. That's sweet of you." I rocked on my heels for a moment and adjusted a bobby pin before excusing myself.
I cleared a few abandoned potluck stained plastic plates away from a table, wondering if I had ever burdened someone's mind by questioning them about plans. I dismissed the idea and replaced it with shameful thoughts. Maybe I should join a church. I don't have many friends. I bet at my wedding I could really collect the goods if I had a church family. If I got married. Maybe if the church served wine I could cope with sacrificing those hours and pleasantries. Rotten. Stop it.
I needed my bed in my cramped, cluttered little room. I needed to roll sore my ankles and wrists round and round until they make satisfying little popping sounds. I wanted to fall asleep listening to a bluesy voice and dream and dream. I wanted to dream of something new. I've dreamed of my hair for so many nights now. My mom combing though it with her fingers as she chatted about her day, my cat swatting at a braid as I bent to fill her bowl, my every strand turning white in the sun. It's no surprise that I should dream of my hair. In two days, I'll be cutting it. Almost all of it will be gone this time.
Laugh if you want to, but part of me is hoping for a somewhat baptismal event. A life altering change. How freeing it must be to have short hair! With my luck, I'll look like a little boy. But maybe that freedom isn't just a physical sense of lightness, but a psychological thread to be cut. A particularly stubborn thread. I've hidden under my long hair for years, questioning whether I was pretty, attempting to possess all of the qualities of a pretty girl. Long, dark lashes, blushed cheeks, glossed lips, padded bras, and long hair, braided with pink silk flowers, hiding one side of my face behind a curtain of the stuff, reddening at the slightest bit of attention. Recognizing the warmth of my face and chest only causes a silent panic and a deeper shade of embarrassment.
My friend, my dearest friend with the sweetest heart. I no longer blush when he tells me sweet things. I think it's because I've stopped arguing with myself to decide if what he says is genuine. He tells me every day that I'm beautiful inside and out, I doubt he's forgotten a day in the last year. Maybe that's what it takes, blunt force. Cramming the thought into my skull. Thank you, kid. I can't let your efforts be in vain.
And so, as uncomfortable as I am in my skin, in my situation, and in my shoes, I need to do things that scare me.
I've decided to write about them.
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