Looking in this mirror I have found a way to see my past. It isn’t by ways of squinting or thinking really hard or chanting my ancestors' names. It is simply given to me by reflection. This hair. This hair that I’ve decided to chop off, so it sits on top of my head as opposed to the frame it used to be for my face. My hair in the way it falls short — as my grandmother’s face snickers in its cut. Her hair. Her same hair. Not in the cursive waves it used to be - but in the short wispy sentences it seems to make. Call it feathered. Call it pixie. I call it Dolores. So, I smooth out its wings, paste down its flies . . . roll my eyes and say good morning to my blood. I wonder if anyone else sees the 80-year-old that I carry as I walk down the streets. Not yet, I hope.
But then I wonder, about the accessory that grows - front and center. If it were a different time — If I were a different age, would it be considered trendy instead of edgy. Accepted, instead of bold?Expected instead of different? We keep up with fashion in a high heeled foot race to the finish. Only to find that the ending is just another beginning. So, is it just this decade that makes me stand out while it made my grandma fit in. If I were born in the 20’s and refused the Gibson Girl style held with barrettes and bows and wore lose long curls would I be a trend setter or a deviant. And herein, lies the problem. If we don’t fit to the lines, it looks as though we are a toddler coloring outside of them — when in reality we just don’t see the edges of the paper.
We grow our souls in a Petri dish when we always follow the rules. Is there freedom in looking like another decade? Or comfort in blending into this one. Couldn’t the glorious fungus of our beings be explored in the wild and not in a plastic container, or from a chemically treated magazine? We are told that men can’t wear dresses - but they could wear togas. So are they being punished for not aligning with fashion for the time period we are in? I find it all to be a bit distracting from the main truth - which is the sound of my lungs. The natural instinct my skin feels as it turns itself into small bumps of inspiration. But certainly not in a trend that will fade faster than the color of my hair. The beat of my being. The length of an image.