wash, cut & blow-dry

Holly Blackmore

Image by Emily-Layne Kapetanovic

Full moon thoughts;

I don’t need to invest time-money-effort into being pretty. 2:22, 3:33 and 4:44 this afternoon. The horizon at eye-line, even below, as I walk down my street. It’s always worth taking the long route for this view. Feel as though I’m king of the world.

Woke up & decided to cut my hair today. Almost curbed my impulse - decided to say “fuck it'‘ anyway. Freedom in the hairdresser’s chair, blue lady with firm fingers massaging my scalp. I could hardly open my eyes if I tried. The soft adrenalin of seeing my gold-tinted locks in thatched patterns on the tiles. It always looks so fucking good in the salon. Fuck, I even paid an extra $20 for a fancy blow-dry. Waltzing through the mall as though my head were made of helium, my body dragged towards the ceiling.

Sat down at the organic cafe, ordered a cacao hot chocolate and raw donut. This entire time I was supposed to be in a compulsory lecture. Instead, I scanned through the slides while sipping froth off my tall glass. Saucer to match. A moment of reprieve. I’m a new woman, now. Long hair had connotations of childhood, uncleanliness, shitty complexion. Now my skin is stomachable, my smile is larger than life when it emerges and my heart is so full of the little things. I’m finally becoming something that is worthy of evolution.

Turning twenty is fucking scary. Moonlight hits the walls blue-pink-grey and makes faces at me in shadows. I just want to be pure; I just want to be something. Somebody. Grappling with the entire weight of my existence. But everything sort of aligned itself on this one morning in August, when I spontaneously went for a wash, cut and blow-dry.

Note; take some time for yourself.