Wednesday, December 1, 2010

The Woman In The Mirror

      I was rushing around this morning. Trying to get the garbage together and trying to get my son out of the door . I throw kibble down the dog’s throat and plea for poop on demand. Success.

     I made it home in time to make coffee and let my first client into my home. I settle into the day and surrender to the chaos of back to back clients looking to me for advice and beautiful hair styles. After the morning rush, I get into my email, voicemail and eventually nuzzle into a pile of dirty laundry, wedding photos and event invitations on Facebook. I glide through branches of information and visuals that are none of my business and set my gaze on photos of my ex-husbands really cool, really amazing salon. I try to pick apart the fixtures and critique the d├ęcor, but I have nothing- it looks great. Everyone looks great. So trendy and young.

     I noticed my assistant whom I’d referred to my ex had made a big gutsy change to her hair. If she was still with me, I wouldn’t have encouraged a look like that. Way too bold for my liking. She looks fantastic. I felt a small fury roll around in my belly and start to pick up tid bits of envy and finally turn itself into a bowl of black hair color sitting in my gloved hands.

     Without thinking, I ravaged through the top of my perfect bleach blond hair. Grabbing pieces here and there brushing the tar into my ashen locks.

     “What I need is an accent color!” I told myself louder than I care to admit.

     You would almost expect the lights to start flickering, thunder clapping as my hysterical laugh travels up the stairs from the basement whilst I give life to my fashion phenomena! The dog put her paws over her face and quivered.

     I rinse and blow dry. I convince myself it doesn’t look like a huge navy blue Spice Girl chunk on the top of my head.

     “It looks RAD. I look trendy and young.” I say with a smaller voice. I look at the clock, I realize I have to fly out the door to pick up my son from school. I consider a hat.

     So- here I am in the school parking lot in the security on my little car. My heart rate has now slowed and out of nowhere a wave of shame barrels into me. I pull the visor down and look in the mirror at my blue and black hair. Surrounded in expensive SUVs and tight bodied soccer moms I am face to face with my jealousy. Then it breaks. The feeling of envy snaps. I burst out laughing and feel like kicking myself in the ass for my moment of weakness. What the hell was I thinking?! Did 10 yrs of color theory just go down the drain along with the blue-black hair color I applied to my hair?!

     “Relax, it’s not that permanent.” I tell myself. Breathe in, breathe out. Let it go and suck it up. I get out of the car and straighten up. Hold my navy blue head high and own my self realized jealousy. I retrieve my kid from the yard. He doesn’t even notice I look like a blue haired senior citizen. Actually, it seems no one notices. I take in a shaky gasp and head home. Time to make snacks, poop the dog and figure out what the hell I am going to do with this fashion phenomena.

Friday, November 12, 2010

Blissful 31

I've had quite the couple of weeks. It's been gleefully up and painfully down. I had a great birthday (yay 31) and my 2 yr relationship ended. So, I am left with the fatigue of late great nights and a heart wrenching love hangover. 

Along with my ups and downs I am forced to look over the last few years of my life and I wonder what I could have changed. I'm listing the things I should be accountable for, pondering the wrongs put against me. Perhaps, throwing myself a little pity party.

Question: Could I have tried harder somehow? But- I am so excited to move on. I stop myself from daydreaming about having time to myself because I'm living it. I catch my breath because I have room to breathe. I raise my head in a crowd because I'm not hiding behind anyone. I feel free. Single and free.

I'm looking forward to my 31st year. I'm anxious of what awaits me. I am excited to build better relationships with women and men. Maybe a wine tasting night, or an adventure group... Who knows? What an excellent period in my life to have time to do what ever I want. 

Sunday, October 24, 2010

New York, New York

     I recently took a mini vacation with my mom to New York City. She just retired and celebrated her 56th birthday. I thought it would be really cool to treat her to 4 days of site seeing, mother/daughter bonding and a little shopping. I was really looking forward to walking through Central Park’s Strawberry Fields during the month of John Lennon’s 70th birthday.

     I fantasized about standing , gazing at the ‘Imagine’ memorial, allowing one tear to fall. Later, sitting amongst young hipsters, explaining to my mom the different conspiracy theories of Lennon’s death. Talking about the songs and how they inspire me to want to help stop war and stand up against senseless killing and hatred in the world.

     So… There I was, in a very busy department store. Searching for my mother. Floor after floor, escalator after escalator. 45 minutes of searching and panicking because she can’t find me. Her hot flashes testing her temper, the perfume counter triggering a migraine, the crowds inducing a claustrophobia she wouldn’t be able to handle. It plagued me to think of her upset and sad that I lost track of her.

     My eyes welled up with tears and I gave up. I had to get some air. I pushed my way out of the door and stumbled on to the street. I took in a breath of cool air and exhaled setting my gaze upon my mother. Sitting. Smoking. Sipping cheap coffee from up the street.

     “You all done shopping Hun?” She asked, smoke escaping her lipstick’d lips. I forced my shoulders down from my ears, cooled down, and requested we return to the hotel as I felt a migraine coming on. She, on the other hand felt great.

     This is it. I thought. I’m the adult. I’m the organizer and the leader. A claustrophobic , uptight daughter who is being told to ’loosen up’. I’m face to face with myself. Gazing at my sensible slip on clogs and my new reading glasses. Minimal makeup and simple ponytail.

     My mom butts out her cigarette on the sidewalk with her trendy, purple, high heeled boot and tells me to ’chill out’.

     New York, New York…

Monday, October 18, 2010

Word are so loud sometimes.

It's so funny when I think of writing a blog- I have an overwhelming wave of ideas. Yet- I sit here, in my car waiting for my boyfriend to come out of Rogers, sort of stumped. Writing quickly. My eyes shooting back and forth from the front door of the building to my notebook. If I see him coming, I will quickly tuck my book away and pretend I was doing nothing. Pretending, because he'll ask. 

Why am I so shy to share this writing with him? I even hesitated to tell him I have always been interested in writing a blog. He is encouraging, kind and enjoys my writing. So- why so shy? I enrolled in a creative writing course last year at the University of Toronto. I failed to attend the last few classes as it was time to present our final piece and have them critiqued. I was so beside myself to let my classmates into my head. I failed and never returned. 

So, a year later, here I am, thinking about this. I have confidence in what I write. I speak to people all day. When it comes to family and friends, I shut down shop. It's strange that I worry about the opinions of those who will be gentle with my feelings and dive into the critique of those I don't know. I suppose this may be the purpose of this journey. To expose myself in a cathartic way in order to have stronger bonds with those around me. To tell them how I feel without making a sound... Sometimes talk is so overrated.