Fridays, December 20th.

It's Friday. I have my bottle of Pepsi and I'm watching cheap garments swirl inside a drum with Walmart brand detergent. I never wear real clothes throughout the week so it's always baffling how full my basket will be at the end of the week. I wear the same two uniforms, five days. In between, I'm chipping off dried on ranch dressing and mashed potatoes off my tits with a fingernail before clocking in. At the end of the day, I throw on some mens sweatpants and an undershirt succumbing to the next phase in my day as my life as a shapeless blob.

Now, here I am, free from my duties of suggesting cocktails and prime cuts of meat, finally free to dress myself as a young woman. It's 60 degrees and tomorrow is the first day of Winter. I've just looked down at myself to see what I've chosen. A black tunic, leggings, wedged booties and my black raincoat. Save for the soft, pink rosette in my hair, an after thought to tuck a wisp of hair behind my ear, I look like the grim reaper's daughter. I forget what my body looks like at times. I'm waiting for January, I suppose.

In January I'll trek down to the bus station and meet my sweetheart in the cold. I'll dress like a Victoria's Secret model, lace, unnaturally hairless and soft, under my Eskimo suit. He'll crush me against his body in the wind and snow and I'll feel so precious.

I walk back to my little apartment and heave my hamper onto my bed. I assault the Keurig and coil up on the low, defeated looking segment of the couch, clutching my geisha mug. Knees to chest, I write my mental grocery list and sip away. It's earthy and smooth, no sweetness, no milk deluded comfort in my cup. I want another, but my stomach aches with hunger. 

Pushing filet mignon and smiling hasn't been so profitable as of late. Call it the economy, call it the season of giving. I dine on ugly, discarded rolls and salads from the salad line at work. At home, I make a little meatloaf and a bag of streamed vegetables for around $10 once a week. I still have Christmas presents to buy. Another coffee to fill the space.

I won't be home for Christmas.

I've not written since I've moved. I regret that so much.

I'm a server at family restaurant now. I'm a damn good one. Anything I've ever been, I've tried to be a damn good one. I've only been there a little over four months and they've let me train three other servers. I love training. It's awful that I do. The whole time I was in school I resisted the notion of ever teaching English or Art. Maybe it's the one on one aspect that I enjoy? Maybe I just wanted to read, write, and work in the service industry.

But that's enough bragging about my lame life choices.

Today, we servers had a potluck Christmas party. We huddled around a long table in a closed dining room covered in various Tupperware containers, a feast of pastas, casseroles, chips and dip, supplementing just a bit from the salad station. I made dessert, as always. It wasn't a company Christmas party, a sparkling cocktail dress and heels affair, it was a crusty apron and non-slip shoes hit-and-run. We stuffed our faces as in between serving tables, bitching and swapping recipes. It was wonderful. We thanked one another for our contributions and said "merry Christmas" again and again.

This is the strangest Christmas yet. I won't see my family this year. Of course I'll have my sister, but it'll only feel like I'm intruding on the first Christmas she'll have with her new husband. I'll sit back with Kitty trying to get her to rip the wrapping paper on the new toys and collar I bought her, giving them their privacy. I wish I could work. I could be at the restaurant with my odd little work family in our greasy little uniforms, stealing cups of dried cranberries from the prep station, harassing one another with terrible jukebox picks, and bribing the bartender for a paper kid's cup of cheer.

I came home and cried. I only have $36.28 to show for a 7 hour day of work. I know I need to find another job, but god, I don't want to. I adore my work family.

I did it.

I cut my hair.

I told her exactly what I wanted and I starred straight ahead into the mirror. I never fidgeted, I never shook, I never blushed, I never cried. I don't know what to say about the entire experience but that I'm exhausted now. I've developed a cold in the last couple days and oh, I'd love to just sleep, but I've got to preserve the day before it leaves my memory.

Without warning, she snipped through my pony tail and laid it on top of the counter in front of me. I starred at the bundle of hair and noted the tonality. The colors ranged from an ash brown, auburn to chocolate, with one single silver stand centered under the rubber band.

My back was peppered with short, dark hairs that had fallen into my cape and the stylist, who wore a comically voluminous platinum wedge, added so much product that I looked like one of those unfortunate looking twins from the original Parent Trap. The whole way home I mashed it down and combed with my fingers, pressing down on every angle.

I came home and went right to the shower. I washed and scrubbed my scalp until it tingled all over. I ran a big, fluffy towel all over my head, over and over, round and round and let it fall. My hair was jet black and spiky, dripping water all over my bare shoulders. I leaned my hips into the vanity and plucked little locks, rearranging them around my face. I smiled. The ends of my hair were like conical spears, pointing at my cheek bones as if to say "here they are!"

Barefaced and pink from the hot water, I felt lovely. Not pretty, not cute-- certainly never sexy-- just lovely. In the foggy mirror I admired my neck and shoulders, my cheekbones and my jaw line, running my finger from my ear to the tip of my chin. I saw the shape of my pink ears poking out from underneath and appreciated how delicate they felt between my fingers. I combed my hair forward, back and side to side. It looked lovely each way I styled it.

Since that day, I've been very sick.

My nose is rosy pink from blowing it constantly. All of my energy has been sapped. My voice is gruff and dry. I've spent today smiling weakly at people and combing my fingers along the back of my head. Two people told me I looked like an elf, another told me I was absolutely adorable from head to toe.

Well. Thanks.

Finally, finally, I have my place to write. I have my cup of lady grey tea with honey, and for the life of me, as much as I struggle to recall the sights and smells of the past few days, give a rich description of the world around me, I don't care. I can't seem to make myself care.

Maybe that's it. Maybe that's the transformation. I don't care. And not in a bad way. I'm in control of my life. It's going to be okay.