I used to feel my canvas lacked depth, volume or spirit.
It was present, but not present, if you know what mean?
It lacked meaning and didn’t add to any kind of speech
so it looked just like it had ever sounded: Silent.
I tried many kind of techniques.
Overcompensating
Invisibility
Changing color, shape or form
Looking up to all the queens in our history
But I never found the resemblance I seeked.
I knew I’d never drink tea with a Marilyn Monroe,
I longed for endless waves that would participate in our conversation.
But I was never able to keep the depth in those curls and after some scarcely moments of supreme confidence that wave fell flat.
I admired those who wore contemporary Sunday like lazy queens.
Instead of treating it as their grande accessory it was merely a particle of the entire painting.
That messy Winehouse beehive would just float above their hairline but the only thing that hovered over my brain were fly hairs and grease.
I’d style and comb my bob until it’s smoothness would twin with Louise Brooks. While comparing our bangs and burning my hands from flat ironing my stubborn locks I didn’t have as much succes as miss Brooks appearance.
I used to feel my portrait lacked life, strength or intensity.
A pattern occurred.
in which I would visit whomever would claim to patch up my confidence
by cutting it short or coloring it red
Or showing me the ropes of braiding the pigheaded strands near my hairline.
And after all their work I’d get all worked up the first time I encountered the bathroom mirror.
Me and I had endless conversations while I turned on the waterworks.
I kept that tap running while I kept the tap running to wet my hair and start all over again.
Combing, blow drying and fixating.
Sulking, combing, blow drying and fixating.
Crying, sulking, combing, blow drying and fixating.
I would never simulate the first look in the salon mirror.
I could never agree with what was on my head.
I used to feel it lacked depth, volume or spirit.
And that my framework was merely a pair of blinds.
I could’ve talked to the Middle Age Queen and partly raise my hairline to maintain focus on my face.
But I wanted to join those who carry courage on their head.
Are you ready for the comments?
Are you sure it’s something you dare to do?
Will the non existence of your hair suit you?
Sure.
Let’s go.
Let it go.
Shave it all off.
I’ve had enough of:
Anti feminist stigma’s.
Heartless beauty standards.
Unasked opinions.
From fake face companions.
Make believe beauty.
Based on unfair commentary.
Rude staring.
Redundant glaring.
Anything comparing one and other for something that’s merely marketing make believe.
I used to feel my portrait lacked life, strength or intensity.
But according to the packs of sheep it lacked a layer of mainstream.
So I hopped onto the buzzcut-wagon and became their biggest insecurity.