I went to get my hair cut today. I know that everything will be basically closed for the entire month of August....so, in anticipation, I had my hair cut a bit ahead of time so I could make it until September,
It was funny because it was the first time my hairdresser called me by name....Yuni...or Yoony....or Uni.......as in Juni....since my name is not one that is "normal" in everyday society in Italy. I thought it was cute....wrong, but cute...I mean, I can live with that. I know they don't understand.
This was the first time she ever called me by name. She was busy this evening...and her phone never stopped. I thought I would be the first appointment of the afternoon, but there were already two people ahead of me. What is it? Graduations? Weddings? Both?
So, she was a bit rushed, but perfect as always. She might be THE best hair cutter I have ever encountered. I called her an "artista"...and one of the other women there agreed.
Also, this time, as I left, she didn't follow me to her "check out stand" but stayed back with the other ladies. So I left my money on her counter and as I left I said "Buonasera! Grazie!" and pointed to the counter. I was...sort of ...and sort of not ....comfortable with that.
My husband noticed that my hair was shorter than usual and I told him why. Why not shorter? Why not? Why not? Well......that's because.....that's because some years ago someone noticed ....who was it? For the life of me I can't remember....someone said I looked like my mother. I nearly died.
All my life I was told I looked like my father....my father who left us. My father who turned his back...on me. (My sisters were older and were adults when he left...I was twelve.) But, what did I do? I blamed my mother. Because.....she was silent...she never spoke...never raised her voice...never said a word about it. I blamed my mother although she was still there. I blamed her because she DIDN'T EVER TELL ME ANYTHING!
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So.....to have someone say I looked like her was jarring, to say the least. And, as I got older, I saw it. I could see it myself. But most especially with my hair short, as my mother's always was.
Quite frankly, I could not bear it to see or be reminded of her each day in the mirror...it would drive me crazy. I was the unwanted child. I was the accident. I should never have happened.
I am sorry that I feel this way, and I have no way of ever extricating myself from it. Just as I have no way of ever forgiving my miserable, selfish father. Both of them failed me as a child. I was the leftover. Pffft.
Well, I'm still here. And I love my hair, which is shiny, healthy and silver. But it is MY hair, not anyone else's...and I wear it as I wear it for my comfort.
Strange, isn't it? How these miserable ghosts can continue to haunt us for entire lifetimes?
