Boy-meets-girl

For the longest time I was a champion of the boy-meets-girl look. I sported an ever shifting short haircut that made my mom cry. I mixed it up with girly dresses and overworn high top chucks. I don’t really need to tell you how many phone numbers jotted down in napkins I collected over those years. It would have been a-a-amazing except the names next to the numbers were “Jessica” and “Debbie” and “Natalie”. I was a gay heartbreaker of enormous proportions.

I didn’t care about any of it. Happiness for me meant haircuts, the ones only bravehearts dare try. The decision of cutting it all off was not planned, frankly. I did it on a whim on a morning like any other. I cut class, picked the most over the top stylist I could find and kissed my tresses buhbye. Looking back, there was an underlying philosophy to it, I guess. I grew up in a Noxzema commercial. You can’t get any more normal than the bitches in my school, they were (and still are) like the Kraft Singles of women: perfect, shiny, countless, convenient. No kid would ever complain that they are weird). Trying to win at their race was pointless. The normal slot was taken. I would try to be remarkable instead.

But after 7 years of minimal and soft, of being all the boys and all the girls all rolled up in one, of shock factor and easy awe, I quit. It got pretty boring after all. Rediscovering long hair and matchy matchy jewelry is what 2011 is all about.

This is what I am thinking now: bedtime stories, a mother of pearl comb, the tragedy of a single maiden waiting for her destiny on her bed. The wife of the captain with braids in their hair. See through slips, medieval royalty, a moonlit window and promises that should always be kept.