Moe, Hairy and Curly

For most of my adult life, I’ve been known by two different hair identities:  super-short and sassy Rocker Chick; and long and curly Sexpot.  The times in between the two are fraught with confusion and sadness, either waiting for my “self” to grow back in, or cooking up the nerve to chop it down to the nubs.

Today I visited my friend Bessy, the unemployed hairstylist, to inch my way toward Sexpot.  Having spent the past year growing my hair out, I was ready to say goodbye to the doldrums of plain Jane straight hair.  I needed a change.  I need a spring back in my step.  I need to be noticed, and not to be lonely.  Bessy had decided to give me a perm.  (And yes, people still do that!) 

Bessy is an interesting cat.  A twenty-five year old mother of two, she lives with her baby’s daddy, who was actually her first love…when she was thirteen.  He was 21.  After a fling with another man gave her her first child seven years ago, a stint in rehab for an opiates addiction put a fine point on the end of that relationship.  She made her way back to her sweetheart a couple years ago.  I met her when she was already pregnant with the baby.  Her life story came pouring out of her.  I immediately wanted to adopt her.

Though she is a licensed cosmetologist, she is terrified of getting a salon job.  It took years for her to complete her schooling, and even longer to finish her required apprentice hours.  I think the idea of being rejected by a potential boss is too much for her, and the idea of being rejected by potential clients is even more daunting.  So I went to the trailer park to have my hair done in her kitchen.  I didn’t want her to have to hire a sitter. 

Bessy was embarrassed by her home’s condition.  Rooms were unfinished.  Ceilings were missing.  There were no cabinets in the kitchen.  Little did she know, I would have felt exactly the same way had our roles been reversed.

The interesting thing about social classes is this:  they are entirely imaginary.  For as much as she and her partner struggle with money, worry about buying food and paying the mortgage, and wonder how they will heat their home, I fear all the same things.  My paycheck is larger, my vocabulary more sophisticated, my house a little grander; but the worry is the same.  And for all the bad luck Bessy’s had in relationships, with mental illness and addiction, I have endured my own struggles.  As much as my family and education have given me advantages over her in life, she is no less wise and no less happy than I.  As Oprah often says, “All pain is the same.”

Though I am older, and by most standards more successful, I felt free to tell Bessy about the crazy behavior I’ve exhibited of late, and the conflicted feelings I still fight in regards to The Colombian.  She felt free to give me advice.  In between crying baby, unruly seven-year-old, and not knowing where her partner was, she had the composure to advise me on the foolishness of stalking, and to school me on the toxic evil of men who use women.  As she rolled my hair, she soothed me with her knowledge of men who are dogs.

Sometimes I wonder whether there are really any differences that matter in life.  We treat one another with suspicion and coldness, using our different classes as great dividing lines to keep us separate from our neighbors.  But I wonder whether we might find that we all fight the same demons, if we faced our shields in the same direction.

When Bessy was done, my hair was a pound less heavy, and much larger.  My long-missed curls had returned, just in time for a new season of dancing and meeting new people.  But of  course I will not do those things.  My Sexpot hair will take itself to work, and will come home to pine for The Colombian.  It will earn me a compliment or two, from local businessmen and retirees who do not interest me in the least.  And Bessy will laugh at me for following none of her advice.