My hair's getting long.

It's longer now than the last time I cut it off majorly. 

I used to mark the passage of time by how many times I got my hair cut. From the time I was 9, Mom let me choose my hair length. I kept it boyishly short. I'd go to the salon every 6 months or so, get it all wacked off to about three or four inches long, and go about my life. This continued the year after I graduated high school and finally got the money together for college.

Then I made this stupid little promise to myself. I said that until I graduated college, I wouldn't get my hair cut. A year passed, then two, and I had to cut back on my course load. Another year passed and I moved out of my parents house. I stopped attending college after half a year on my own. I have yet to return. I have no degree.

But I did get my hair cut.

I guess it doesn't mean much to anyone who might be reading this, but the first time I got my hair cut in 4 years, a friend did it for me. Holly came by to see me. Holly is my old friend from high school. We met in 10th grade, where she watched my attempts to be useful in drivers ed. She has helped me weather so many of my little breakdowns from that time. For a while, we worked at the same job and got to see each other constantly. She's my twiplet, and I am her twinchilla. There are so many little in jokes and silly things we shared. We hadn't seen each other for a little while, and I finally had a day off from work.

She came over and one of the first things she said to me after we got inside my apartment was "You've got so many split ends, girl. Find me some scissors, you need a trim." It's so fitting now, because Holly just finished getting her license as a hair dresser.  

By this time, I had to start keeping my apartment all by myself, due to a roommate who moved back with her parents. I dropped out of college and worked 50 hours a week to make ends meet. Even then, I had a lot of help from so many wonderful people.

She sat me down in a chair and brushed out my hair to get all the snarls out. I can't remember if I took a quick shower to get all my hair wet before she started or not. All I remember is someone taking time out of their day to do something for me that I couldn't do for myself. I remember crying. It meant a lot to me.

During that time in my life, I had problems paying my rent and feeding myself at the same time. I only made 8.00 an hour and worked massive overtime to make rent. Don't think this is all about me whining about how hard I have it in life. Far from it, I am thanking the universe for every single friend I have who reached out a hand to help. For some reason, I had so many people who wanted to help me.

Whenever I had the anime club over, more than one person would purposely buy too much, or cook too much food and leave it there for me. On several occasions, Danny and Katie, a wonderful couple I sorely miss, filled my pantry while I was at work, without telling me. I came home one night to see my pantry full of simple things I could eat and not worry about, like canned ravioli, fruit and cereals. When I couldn't afford food for my dog, they bought a massive bag and dropped it off. They never would take no for an answer.

Honestly, I'm tearing up right now thinking about it.

I didn't intend for this to become another mush session like yesterday. I refuse to let it get past me without putting a thank you out there that can be read again and again. If ever I get to affect many lives with my writing, I would want them to know who I can never repay.

I've been in a reflective mood lately. I don't know why really. But to match this mood, I thought I'd post  bit of a memoir piece I wrote for my CRW2032 class.

I'll post the part about my father now, for if I wait too long and post it on his birthday, I'll be rather depressed after. Insert whatever emoticon you'd like there. If you choose a funny one, I'll laugh.

A Snapshot of my father

When I think of my father, my mind shows me a snapshot compiled from 20 years of memory. His curly hair, so dark brown as to be black, is just a touch too long to look nice. Shot with silver, but never receding, it is defying age as best it can. The face is worn, showing hardships and disappointments in every line; his eyes make me want to cry from sorrow and scream from rage at the same moment. His mouth is open, probably yelling again; whether from happiness or anger is debatable. He did both quite a lot.

His not-too-tall frame is slumped, the weight from fifty years of refusal to forgive his own sins dragging at his soul. The heart of this man is broken, you can see it in the slope of his shoulders, yet the fragments are still too large for his own good. One day it will break again, for he gives too much, too easily, and then all the king’s horses and all the king’s will not bring the pieces together again. His heart is visible in his hands as well, in every scar, knobby knuckle, callus, and age spot. He fought his battle for his daughters with those hands, wielding a wrench and welding torch for almost two decades.

He stands with his feet shoulder width apart, ready for the world to shove him again. He does his best to weather through, but the strain begins to show as the years go roughly on. His knees are bent, not from the desire to flee, but the need to support his own mistakes. Infidelity caused his marriage to crumble before his eyes and started a downhill spiral still ongoing. While my mother went on to find happiness, he remained moored in his solitary life. He called my sister and myself his rocks, the reason he still tries. Were it not for us, he often said, he would not find the strength to continue.

His hobbies have covered a range as wide as his years are long. From toy trains, trying to teach himself guitar, even on to growing his own spices, his interests are varied and short lived. Two constants remain firm through the years though, cooking and classic movies. From my first memories, I have been shown some of the golden oldies, Gone With The Wind, Wizard of Oz, White Christmas, innumerable John Wayne, James Stewart, and Rat Pack movies. Interwoven with these pictures are the scents of garlic, rosemary, thyme, old books, and the sweet smoke of cherry cigars.

 His job caused him to work nights for most of my childhood. He jealously guarded his time with Amber and me, reading to us whenever there was time. He would buy Great Illustrated Classics for us, so we could get an early taste for writers Charles Dickens, Louisa May Alcott, and Mark Twain. He hasn't read to me since the divorce; he didn't have time and I was too cool, but I can still hear his voice flowing and dipping with the cadence of Walt Whitman’s poem, "Oh Captain, my Captain."

 The man in this portrait is a mystery to me. He is an infuriatingly complex mixture of old man and young child, a whirling storm of anger, happiness, inspiration, and depression. He has always confused me. In all he does, he gives and gives, but hates to take or ask. He sees himself as an artist and encouraged his children to be people who change to world in the way we can. The man who used to touch the sky and pull down the lazy clouds to weave us a dream, is not so tall anymore. He has become the foundation for me to spring from as I rush past the sun to the places he knows I can go.

~~~~

A bit altruistic at the end, considering my statement earlier. Oh well.

I'll be going now lovelies. Sleep times.

Sleep well and Sweet dreams.