|Not sure who this is, but this is how I feel.|
It seems like such an inconsequential thing to obsess over, but I do. From the 30-year love-hate relationship with the nest of curls on my head to this odd silver arm hair that grows 4 times the length of its sister hairs, to the 1-2 visible (and quickly plucked) hairs on my chest. (The very ones that make me throw back my head wailing "I'M A MAN!") To the hair on my toes and face. To my overgrown eyebrows (I can't keep up with those caterpillars; I do keep the unibrow in check). To the fact that I must have a super hair-growing gene. To the fact that once a month my bathtub clogs after I shave my legs.
Ooo... too much?
Yeah, too much.
[The bathtub thing was hyperbole, in case you thought I was semi-serious.]
At any rate, I am very aware of my hair. From what it's not doing to frustration because its never doing what it's "supposed to do" (you know, lie sleek and flat against my head, and it should, shouldn't it? Where are the 50% white genes in me?!). I just want manageable hair. The funny thing is that for the majority of my life (beginning at like 8?) I relaxed my hair (chemical straightener) to tame the wild. About three years ago I stopped (it was too expensive and I was curious about my natural hair). Now it's all natural: a semi-tight curl with loads and loads of volume. I have enough hair for twenty people. Because there's so much, I pull it back all the time. Even now, I don't know what to do with it or how to take care of it. I switch hair products every few months. It does look good when it's down, but I'm always patting at it, wondering: Is it to big? My hair draws attention. I don't like such attention. At the same time, when I pull it back I feel like a man. Multiply this by the fact that I often have unwanted facial hair and you probably have the prime reason why I'm not approached by men. They probably see me as one of the brethren (I have been called "sir" to my face and I don't think it's my authoritative personality, ha!). Or maybe I'm not approached because I morph into Samuel L. Jackson a la "Coming to America" 'bout ready to blow someone away if they get to close.
For the past few weeks I've been contemplating wearing makeup. I stopped wearing it a while ago (except for special occasions). Here are a few reasons: (1) I'm lazy and don't want to put in the effort; (2) I like the idea of being wanted and/or desired for the "real" me sans makeup, Spanx, and other beauty paraphernalia that is supposed to make me aggreable to men; and (3) being darker skinned, the stuff smears all over everything. I remember being so hesitant to hug people without leaving a brown cheek print behind. I'm only thinking about it now because I've been feeling quite manish of late.
Like man troll manish.
I wake up and hobble into the bathroom and find a man standing in the mirror. That man is me, and she is not sexy. And as I stare at my manflection I think: maybe a little make up will make this hombre prettier? And that man shakes her head and I head out the door with my hair pulled back and a pair of girly earrings in my ears.
So I am in limbo. Tomorrow, maybe I will wear makeup. Or maybe I'll quit thinking of myself as a hairy man troll. Positive thinking is supposed to be sexy, right? Meh. It's just been one of those days (ie, years).
I'm pretty sure my birth father (or mother) was part Sasquatch. Curse my little brown hairy body.