Teenagers are phasey people. Going in and out of what’s hip and what’s cool, what’s not cool, what’s cooler than cool, and whether or not “cool” is even a cool term. I have a theory that high school cliques are just clumps of people bonding over the fact that they are stuck in the same dreadful phase.
I’ve been through a ton of these phases. I’ve been the nerd, then the wannabe, then the prep, then the emo kid, then the scene kid. Phase after phase after phase. Fueled by a lack of self esteem and a desire to be different, I have made changes to myself based on people and things I wanted to be like and have.
Upon realization (over the summer; to be exact) that I was set in motion on the never ending phase cycle, I made a promise to myself for sophomore year: Do NOT change yourself for people. All I have ever done is change myself so I could be liked by people who I personally hated. I am done officially done being a puppet that masks the true me. (Cheesy, I know.)
My hair got to the longest it has ever been in early February. Several inches past my shoulders wasn’t much but it was enough to make me giddy with effeminate pride. I imagined myself at the beach with my best friend Kristen, whose hair was as equally as long as I dreamed mine to be. I could pull it over to the side and tilt my head as I winked and shimmied past boys as they stared in amazement at the way my flowing locks flirtatiously wisped around me. A long haired natural goddess. I have listened to my guy friends comment on their preference to long hair, and my little sister babble about the way she wants her thin blonde hair to grow long like all of her friends.
Fast-forward to Friday. I’m sitting in the chair of my ever-trustworthy hairstylist and family friend, Diane. “Are you sure?” she asks me, holding the longest layer of my freshly shampooed and still damp mane. “Yes, quick before I change my mind.” My almost-goddess ‘do was traded in for a chic bob, a couple of inches off of my shoulders. And I was in love. Bobs are me.
I was riding home with one of my best friends yesterday. Cranky and unmedicated, he ranted on about a girl we both know
“…she’s just another girl with daddy problems and crooked tits who breaks hearts and masks around as a sex goddess, but honestly she’s too shallow to know anything about men.”
“Sounds like me.”
“You’ve had your share of problems. And you couldn’t fit into any stereotypes even if you tried.”**
I smiled and reached up to play with a piece of my shaggy, wavy, croppy and oh-so-me bob and smiled. I’m not a goddess. I am not a scene or a prep or a phase or a follower. All of that is sitting in Diane’s trashcan, along with the rest of the non-me that I shed.
Dwell on it, mes lecteurs uniques
**=I left out the rest of the comment, but if you heard it you would have laughed just as hard as I did.
No comments:
Post a Comment