Hope, my old friend, has prevailed. I am on Day 21 of my journey back into the land of the living single and I have stopped my whimpering and sniveling. Last night, the school board welcomed me in my new position and I met my second new date in two days. And I did something I always do when change is imminent. I cut off my hair.
In one of my favorite Shakira videos, our heroine(still a brunette before that awful peroxide spiral perm she wears now) is bullfighting a hot man. She is lunging at him in a papier-mache bull head while he waves the red flag. At the end of the video, she decks herself out in toreador glory: white shirt, embroidered pants, laced boots. She also chops her hair off, thick clumps at her feet. She’s left with a cute bob. I have done something more drastic.
My hair has been through many changes. I have had it boy-short several times. I have had it long and thick. He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named-Lest-I-Retch preferred longer hair so like an idiot, I grew out my hair for him, learning to pile it high with clips. This past year, my hair grew more and more curly. There is something reassuring about changing my hair. It represents freedom and will. And the promise of something new.