Right now I have the worst haircut of my life. (And I've had some regrettable 'do's, especially during the 80s) Perhaps I'll search out photographic evidence...
My daughter has taken to calling me "boofy", an unfortunate moniker from that aforementioned decade. It's embarrassing.
I keep toying with the idea of returning to the stylist who committed this crime and seeing if she can fix it. But I'm afraid she'll make it worse. If that is even possible.
I wish I had the balls to shave my head and start over. Clean. Bare. All the flaws of my skull out there for the world to see. Because I believe the new growth would be beautiful. Lush. Thick. Wondrous. Like a forest where all the tangled undergrowth has been burned off.
But it's cold, even here in California. And I don't have the stamina or the courage to start a new head of hair at almost 43.
So going bald becomes the metaphor for another kind of starting over, in both my writing life and my non writing life. I sense some of the changes will be huge, others barely perceptible. Yet sometimes the biggest changes we make seem insignificant to others, and the smallest steps appear to outsiders like a moonwalk.
Already I have tackled a technology I've avoided for several years, not blogging, though through my shell it hasn't ever been easy. No, I ventured into geekdom and forwarded my domain so that when people go to my website, for now, this blog is what they'll see.
And me. With my bald head. And my bared heart. Flawed and fearless.
