When one endures a divorce, I suppose it’s fairly typical that among the first plans of action is to lose 20 pounds and tidy up with a dramatic makeover. Weight? Check! I’m down 8 pounds over the past six weeks, in part because at the beginning of the end of my 10-year partnership, I simply kept throwing up out of angst. Ultimately, I decided the Karen Carpenter diet was probably not prudent for the long term. Since, I’ve been taking good care of myself, mandating that self pity is more constructive than self destruction.
But instead of getting a swell new haircut to feel all confident and shit, I’ve taken the opposite tack. While keeping my goatee trimmed, I decided to let my hair grow out, no holds barred, just to see what the hell it might look like. To the right, you see what I looked like in August, before the shit hit the fan.
As a freelance journalist, I work from home, I certainly have no interest in dating or looking pretty for the boyz… so if there were ever time to indulge the seedy side, this is it. At this point, I’m willing to admit that I pretty much look like shit. My hair is not growing out a la Ben Barnes in Dorian Gray. In fact, I more closely resemble the portrait he had locked behind closed doors.
I’m referring to this as my Big Lebowski phase… and I like it just fine, dammit. In any case, this is the longest I’ve let my hair grow since 1988, when it was still lusciously curly and dark and I had a thick beard that got me stopped as a potential terrorist every time I flew internationally… oh, youth, how you have betrayed me (indeed, speaking of Dorian Gray).
Fun and all, but the exercise is ultimately to remain short-lived before I become one of those salt-and-pepper losers with a ponytail. I’m heading to Virginia to see the parents over Thanksgiving week. Not for one moment do I believe my mama would let me in her house looking like this. So within the week, chop chop. But for the moment, delightful defiance.