Negotiating Identity and Haircuts

Negotiating Identity and Haircuts

In my recent studying of literature, I have seen identity as a central idea. Whether its a people group, a country or a teenage girl, identity negotiation plays a central role.
In the never ending saga of defining and redefining myself, I have found that much of my symbolic identity is found in my hair.
As a young sprout I had a frazzled, unkempt head of blond hair. It was straight as a pin but always tangled, due to the fact that I couldn't be bothered to brush it. Too many fairies to find and dogs to ride for that silly business.
The older I got the darker it became, and I got closer and closer to BROWN HAIR!(Now brunettes don't take offense here). My older sister had been born with brown hair and it suited her lovely green eyes and commanding attitude, but I was a softer sort. My eyes were blue, my skin fair, I needed the blond. I needed to be different. And I was not about to change my favorite Disney princess from Sleeping Beauty to Belle.
Eventually with this dilemma close at hand I tried highlights. My sister pulled my long hair through tiny holes in a white dying cap. I felt golden, fun, light...fake. I let them grow out and vowed to stay true to my color, whatever it was.
The real fun came when I was old enough to care about styling my hair. Due to the aforementioned future bird's nest that was my hair, I had a bob with bangs pretty much all of my childhood. Until one day when I decided that grown up girls had long hair, so I grew mine out.
It reached a point of goofy narcism in the eighth grade, when I would swing my long perfectly straightened locks back and forth in class so I could smell my Herbal Essences shampoo. Yea I thought I was the shit.
A few years down the road I had a change of heart. I decided to give said hair to Locks of Love so some nice bald person could have a semi blond, semi not blond wig. Feeling charitable and bold I watched as the hairdresser whacked off my pony tail like an unruly weed.
When I gazed into the mirror at my new stacked bob I said "Oh my gosh! I look like Wesley from the Princess Bride!". After the first shock I calmed down, but I didn't truly love my short hair until I was in the shower that night. I lathered my scalp with a quarter of the shampoo I used to need and felt my hair slick against my head. It felt amazing. And it looked good too. Never a hair out of place, no need to uber straighten. I had been freed that day. I was converted. Short hair girl for life.
Throughout the rest of high school and into college I played with short hair styles, always sticking close to my classic bob and living it up. Until the threat of orthodontia began to loom over me. I thought to myself, "Well if you're gonna be a brace face you should slim up and let your hair grow or its gonna be a rough year." So down it grew, as I got an expander and a lisp. Longer and longer as my mouth was clamped closed with rubber bands. I hid away in it's length, my sadness, my insecurity rested amongst those long strands.
Until one day I awoke. I said enough. No more status quo, no more blending, no more shame! I will be myself. Back to my bob I went. And I felt lighter, smaller and happier.
When I had returned to my former hair glory, there was still something there, an itching, a yearning. So one day with a picture of Katie Holmes' pixie, I called my friend Hannah. She nervously but steadily gave me my first long pixie haircut and I fell in love. The haircut I had always admired and envied on ladies such as my beloved Julie Andrews or Mia Farrow was finally mine. And I pulled it off. I felt beautiful.
My confidence and joy was not and could not be perfect. Because if you're a girl with a pixie most, if not all guys in your life will ask you why. They shattered my self-contentment with "Has your hair always been like that?" "You should grow it out" and "I really prefer long hair". With comments like this ringing in my ears I came to a dilemma, a choice. Guys or me. Their preferences or mine. Selling out or standing strong.
Then I remembered why I cut my hair, to be different, special, me. When my hair grew long I felt my color fading, I sank into the background, I blended with the rest. So however silly it was or is my hair symbolizes me. It isn't normal, it is not long, but its unique.
So when negotiating our hair length or our identities, the opinion most important is our own. Because whether it's our hair or who we are, we are the ones who have to live with it.

I'm so glad

I'm so glad

I'm so glad I'm that easy to replace
like socks that smell
you so easily strip me off
and whip on another pair

like gum chewed up and spit in a wrapper
you gladly and immediately reach in
for another piece

Patience is a virtue they say
but evidently not in your case
So really what more is there to say than
I'm so glad

Dimensions and Girls

Dimensions and Girls

I have recently come to the realization, that despite my lifelong aversion to math, dimensionality has become very important to me and my understanding of my place in this confusing world.

I know what you're thinking, "Duh, Sydney the world is totally full of dimension." No, that's not what I'm talking about. Let's refer back to our high school English classes. Ok so in a book our characters have differing levels of dimensionality. A real simple character comes off flat, undeveloped one-dimensional. These characters almost don't seem real or at least they seem unimportant.

In life flat characters don't seem to get such a tough break. At least not the girl ones. There are two girls at a party (in focus), and bothare pretty and pleasant, but where is our difference? What is the distinction? Dimension. Because one girl is 1D, the other is 3-4D. 1D girl is charming and unchallenging. She laughs at your jokes, acts just drunk enough to be charming, and touches you just enough to leave you wanting more. Meanwhile 3D chick is a whole different ball-game. She asks you about your family, what inspires you, and who you want to be.

So who wins? What is the outcome? Well, truth is friends, 3D girls are amazing, they are the girls who inspire people to be great. But they do not quickly and easily fit into your car, your bed or your life. And 1D girls are as easy to carry around as they are to understand. (Or at the part of them they want you to see). So 3D girl gets passed up, goes home alone. Or she gets chosen just long enough to scare the crap out of some boy who thought he was ready, that he wanted the real deal.

So what's a 3D girl to do? Try to shave herself down to simplicity? No, take solace dear sister in the truth once discovered in high school English. The heroines, the relatable, most beloved characters are the ones that feel real.

Being a girl

Being a girl

Why is it that “being a girl” is a constant effort to not seem like your some terrible adjective. We try not to seem “needy” or “crazy” all the time. And yet it seems like guys are always trying to seem like they are something, like “masculine” or “confident” or some other crap.

So you’re a girl, you’re at home anxiously awaiting a hang out with a guy, and at the last minute he cancels. Immediately, in the wake of hurt left by said text/voicemail/facebook message, you swing into explanation mode. Like a car into a giant transfomer robot, you change from rational, feminist, confident girl into insecure puddle.

Because you brain is playing about 90 scenes from every girl centered romantic comedy advice movie you’ve ever seen. The phrase “He’s just not that into you” flashes in a bright red in your brain. Because despite the fact that dudes pull this shit all the time without skipping a beat we still respond the same way, by looking for a problem within ourselves.

Cause you ain’t crazy so trying not to freak him out you send what you deem to be a desperately passive aggressive message, that he must read and feel your pain and immediately apologize, for said insensitivity. Mean while joker over there, reading your message says “Oh, she cool” and rolls on out with his aforementioned bros and ditching plans.

So you sit and pout and wonder why he doesn’t understand you and doesn’t wanna hang out with you. And you aren’t crazy because those fears didn’t pop out the ground without seeds. A new one was born every time someone left you, every time a guy wanted you so desperately and changed his mind. You have learned that they all leave eventually no matter how good or kind you are.

Why is that being a girl is a constant act of self-restraint? Of maintaining the illusion  of dignity at any and all costs.

Gran Cafetería Santander

Gran Cafetería Santander

In a glass of coke
a building reflects in miniature
creme, blue and green
form little windows
and walls

Bubbles bounce up
to the surface
Not to be heard
in their soft subtlety
Over the whirr
of engines and wheels
honks and screeches

The symphony
to be found
on this corner