Rolling Out of Bed with Good Hair is Powerful
Fuck the whole “we can’t care what we look like.” I just rolled out of bed and at least somehow this day isn’t totally fucked. I have good hair. The possibilities that the day will bring in an effortless way. It’s a sign I know – because I have good hair today.
I rolled out of bed like I do. I love my mornings.
Admittedly I love going to bed so early so I can wake up even earlier. 4am is my magic hour. I never slept as a child and sleeping has been a new practice for me these past few years. I started nailing regular 7 hour sleeps since May. I’m grateful. The world is a very different place when I sleep. Those of you non-sleepers know what I’m talking about – we’re used to functioning slightly drunkenly, it’s a miracle any sort of genius comes out. Now I’m being a little dramatic because yes, I did sleep before at times as well. But not at this regular level.
Last night I had a “late night.”
I went to dance class – my first dance class in years. We were supposed to dance out the pain of our ancestors. I shape-shifted into demons. I had so much fun. There’s a part of me very wild and I very rarely admit it. My commitment is to open to my wild self, my inner genius. We all have one. Now’s the time to own it. Afterwards I sat in the bathtub and talked on the phone to my once-lover with an oatmeal honey scrub mask on and then I rinsed everything off and climbed into bed.
I woke up 7 hours later, the vestiges of dreamtime still behind my eyelids, but for once I didn’t bounce out of bed like I usually do. My usual routine of coffee (that is still my favorite ceremony of the day) meditation and writing furiously for 3 hours couldn’t happen. I was distracted. Frustrated because my book has new tendrils and all I want is time to write and, like any writer knows, the moment we make that time, let me show you all the ways I distract myself.
So I went out to get coffee. I judged myself for leaving my sanctuary so early. If I had my druthers, I wouldn’t talk or see another human before 10:30 AM. I just want to be slow and write and sip things and feel my inner body and see what magic sparks.
But this morning I’ve been worried.
I have to move in September, I’m not sure yet where, I’m such a planner and one thing Covid has taught me is to TRUST FLOW. To not let my fear dominate me. But what do I do when my worry demons are dancing in my ear? I can’t pretend, I’m not good at pretending and it’s a waste of time. So I let go of what I think I’m supposed to do or even want to do and follow my feeling.
My morning coffee was bad anyway. I went to the shop down the road. I had to make sure I’m dressed. I love fashion but it’s more like: pants and nothing else, a light dress and no underwear. Shoes I can barely walk in. I don’t like to wear clothes, the feeling is too much. I think I loved Bali because I could be warm and mostly naked. It’s winter here.
I found my one pair of jeans (so hard to find a proper pair of jeans and I’m just not a jeans person other than my beloved jean shorts) and threw on my bright green jacket. This jacket makes any outfit a game-changer. It’s the perfect emerald green that more clothes should have. I’m not a fan of black.
I check my face to make sure no chocolate is ringing my mouth. That happens a lot. I have a little sleep in my eye that I let rest there. My boyfriend is always picking the sleep out of my eye like a gorilla. It annoys me but at least someone makes sure I look somewhat presentable. I forget to look at my face in the mirror except to make sure there’s nothing in my teeth. I have a water pick for that.
I drive like a zombie in the car. I’m frustrated because I was sparkling with ideas the past two days and now I can feel the exhaustion from dance last night pausing my writing. Committing to being a writer is the best and worst thing ever because how I cultivate my time truly matters. What births creativity? What sucks it out? And learning to be okay when nothing can happen. My overly productive perfectionist must die every day in order for me to make art.
I’m at the coffee shop, apparently with good hair.
I admit I have a pattern where I’d prefer no one to see me. Just let me be an invisible body and face with an outstretched hand to give money and get my coffee. Receive my order telepathically.
“Is that your real hair?” the barista asks.
“Yes,” I say.
“How long do you spend to make it look like that?” she asks.
“I haven’t brushed it in 2 days.”
“You’re kidding me. Even with implants and spending hours on it, I could never get it to look that good. Shiny and wavy and perfect curls. Is that your real color?”
“Yes,” I say.
“You’re so lucky you look so good.”
“It’s diet,” I say.
“It’s more than that,” she says. “Have a great day.”
It put a smile on my face. Good hair is power.
Fuck the whole “we can’t care what we look like.” I just rolled out of bed and at least somehow this day isn’t totally fucked. I have good hair. The possibilities that the day will bring in an effortless way. It’s a sign I know – because I have good hair today. I look good. I’m 41 and still people think I’m 32. I like to brag that I’m in my 40s. Can we just all let ourselves be vain for a second?
I think back to the years of anorexia.
All the biotin I was taking and special shampoos because my hair was listless, dull, and falling out. I had very thin hair and nothing could save it since I refused to eat. Fat was my enemy, all calories were. I barely ate protein. Just carrots and cucumbers and celery and pickles and diet iced tea.
When I put weight on the first time (as I regressed several times) as a ceremony I got my hair cut. All those old years of pain. I remember the hairdresser giving me a 20 minute head massage that I’ll never forget. I was 18 and pretty and didn’t realize all the extra attention I always received because of it. I was used to it.
[Did you know Cat offers a Yoga for Eating Disorders Training?]
Fast forward 2 years and I’m living in Niger. After a bout of malaria, amoebic dysentery and countless other parasites, I’m on a diet of antibiotics and skinny from sickness and weird with my food because that’s how I cope. I’m super skinny again. My hair came out in clumps in the shower.
In high school my best friend called me “Pantene Girl” because my hair was so thick and shiny.
I remember reading once that hair is power.
And I remember after leaving a particularly abusive relationship how my hair once again had thinned. Part of my mission was getting my power back, as I seemed to discard it so easily like a lost sock.
I shaved my head when I was 25. I was tired of the attention from guys, how it seemed like I was a target anywhere I went. I didn’t yet learn that I could put them in their place, talk back, hold myself differently. I didn’t know that I could change this dynamic. So my protection: lose my femininity. I’ve gotten bigger muscles at times, dressed like a boy. Shaving my head. It was also a test – if someone saw through my game – and saw me – then maybe I’d be with them. I dated some beautiful men then.
I’m 41 and I won’t lament the years lost of harming myself.
I started starving myself at age 9. I get why I betrayed myself over and over again. The deeper story is fascinating. The way we try to deny life and love. I’m grateful I still have a body. I was told my heart would give out when I was 18. I walked around as bones for years. I got comfortable with hiding and tricking others – and tricking myself. I like my body now. We’ve been through a lot and she’s hella loyal and I can’t get over her strength. I was born premature and was supposed to have all these health complications. My dad said I was a fighter then- and I’m a fighter now. I won’t think what I would be like if I hadn’t harmed myself this way. Life is our dance with pain and demons -and there’s a Godliness in everything we do.
I’m grateful for this morning. I don’t know if home gets to remain this country or another. I have so many questions and Covid pulled back the reality that: we never know. My old comfort in planning and control has been demolished. Trust is my new power, trust and a deeper inner listening. Ignoring the complaints and fears of others and feeling into my heart. I didn’t just come here to suffer, work hard, and die. That’s the story of my ancestors. I didn’t come here to fear. I came here to love. And that first and foremost begins with myself.