When I was a little girl eagerly awaiting adolescence, there was nothing in the world I wanted more than my own Style. None of the other girls at that age had any Style either, but their Mom's did, and every morning they showed up to school perfectly primped and coiffed (In over-sized Gap sweatshirts and side ponytails, as was the style then). The Moms with Style always managed to dress their daughters in a balance between trendy timeless. Basically, they set the bar as to what you were supposed to look like in the 6th grade. And woe betide you if you couldn't fake the funk. Kids be vicious.
My Mom had absolutely no Style, but God bless her, she tried. She tried to dress me like DJ from Full House, but I usually ended up looking like a rumpled Kimmy Gibbler. Kimmy Gibbler with a Salt n Peppa asymetrical haircut, although I can't remember if that was Mommy's bright idea or mine. Suffice it to say, I was an absolute mess. I suffered endlessly for it. Adding insult to injury, we moved twice a year, so I was subject to regional bullying standards in, like, every state in the union. What's hot in Concord, NH is trash in Toledo, OH and I had to learn this the hard way. Over and over and over again.
My Mom would seriously spend our rent money for new outfits for me. I would come home begging for her to take me to the Mall, sobbing and crying because of the humiliation I had lived through that day in school. She and I would shop all night trying to find something for the next day, a perfect outfit that would win me friends, enhance my attention span in class, and make life bearable.
To this day, I haven't found an outfit that can do any of that. But I've never stopped looking.
These days, I do have Style. My alcoholic overcompensation to those childhood tortures was to create a BULLETPROOF external image that would morph into whatever I needed on any given day. I can take the temperature of any new city's fashion climate in 5.3 seconds flat. Before the end of my first night in a new home, I've changed my hair, revamped my wardrobe, and either gained or lost approximately 4 pounds to suit the level of curviness I think would be best to fit in with my new surroundings..
The things is, if I'm fairly mentally healthy and things are going well I dress down, I relax, I smile. If the shit is hitting the fan, I need 90 outfits in 90 days. And Manicures. And 60$ Lipgloss. And Caffienated Cellulite Cream that's probably a rip-off. And Perfect Eyebrows.
This is the state of mind I was in last night, when I decided to respond to an emotional crisis with a new dye job. For the last 2 years, I've been black haired, blue eyed Irish. My hair has been every length and style known to man, but the color scheme has stayed consistent for a minute. Sometime around 2:30 pm yesterday afternoon, black hair started to feel like the MOST AWFUL, most constraining, most wildly unnecessary burden to ever lay itself on my shoulders. I had to be blonde, and I had to be blonde, like, yesterday.
I called my stylist who is remarkably inconsistent in her abilities (to lazy to find a new one) and told her I'd pay her anything she wanted to give me Sienna Miller's golden shaggy bob. She swore it could be done, I booked it down there, sat through four or five scalp scarring bleach sessions, and then.......I was done. When she unveiled the finished product, all hell broke loose inside me.
"THIS IS NOT WHAT WE DISCUSSED IRMA!", I screamed. I swear to god, the entire shop came to a screeching halt. Everyone was giving up their undivided attention to the bitchy (and blonde) white girl losing her shit in the corner. "This. Is. Not. What. I. Asked. FOR. Where the fuck is my hair? Why is it orange?"
Irma just rolled her eyes at me, because unfortunately, this is not the first time this has happened. Their was a Halloween Highlighting Incident (which I truly thought we had gotten past) and a Rihanna Wannabe Haircut Episode (you'd think I'd learn about asymmetrical cuts) but this one was a Defcon 2 level meltdown in the works. I was expecting to feel peaceful, sexy, and powerful in my new hair, and instead I saw my desperate sixth grade self staring back at me in the mirror.
I was not prepared. My new roomie had to scrape me off the sidewalk to get me home. Mind you, there's absolutely nothing wrong with my hair. I've actually gotten mad compliments on it this morning. But it wasn't what I was expecting. And my expectations must be met or chaos ensues.
Sigh. Isn't that always the point? My expectations always lead me astray. They promise me happiness and contenment and instead deliver me frantic scrambling, grasping consumptions. The more I try and satisfy my desires, the more desires I have. And I still can't get no satifaction.
But when it comes to outward appearances, I cannot be trusted. I am a Chameleon to the fifth power, and powerfully deceptive to boot. The more I try to control the "image" I am presenting the less control I have over my reality. God, I am really this much of a control freak? Huh. Who knew?
But today, I still have the drama and the wreckage of my past from yesterday to deal with. No amount of hair bleach can take that away. Although, I will admit that I'm about to do a minor Sephora shopping bender and probably a mani-pedi.
That's just me chasing my bliss.
Ing
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