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So, for the past couple of months I have been worrying about my hair turning grey. This is because, at age 23, I am indeed going grey. I always figured I had my mother’s hair–she’s only started to turn grey in the past few years–but it appears that I’m going to follow my dad on this one.
It’s not too noticeable as yet–just a few grey hairs mixed in with the brown–but what started as one grey hair six months ago is now probably a dozen. Small changes, but I know what’s happening.
I’ve decided not to dye it. I decided this back when I thought I had another twenty years of brunettedom, but I think I’m going to stick with that decision. I don’t like the fact that it’s basically expected of women to dye their hair well into their 60s or even 70s. I don’t like that it’s impossible to tell anyone’s age anymore. I don’t like the near-deification of youth in our culture, and I don’t want to buy into it. (Also, there’s no way I could remember/afford to have it touched up often enough not to get those skunk stripes. And those are no good.) And yet…I don’t WANT to go grey! I LIKE my brown curly hair! Even when I whine about it, I still am quite fond of it! I don’t want to lose it yet! And I don’t want people thinking that I am old in my 20s! My vanity and my better self have been duking it out, and it’s unclear which will win.
Today I was fixing my hair before going to class, and I pulled out a hair that had fallen out and gotten caught in the curls. It was brown and curly on the bottom half, and silver and straight on the half closest to the scalp. Welcome to my future, I guess?
It’s really going to happen, apparently. Sooner than I think, I will be packing all my books into boxes, renting a U-Haul, loading up all of my stuff AGAIN, and driving it to my new, as-yet-unfound apartment. (That’s not even counting the likely move to Williamsburg for the summer.) Only this time, unlike the moves I’ve made every year since I was 14, I will not be trundling up and down the I-95 corridor, but to someplace far stranger and more frightening–South Bend, Indiana. Google Maps tells me that it is 800 miles away, about a 12-hour drive. At current gas prices, that’s about $280 one-way. A round-trip airfare is less than half that. That’s right. I’m moving where it’s officially cheaper to fly to than to drive.
I have–not rituals exactly, but customs–for moving. My books are the first thing I pack and the first thing I unpack. Probably this is just because books are an easy place to start, but I like to think that it’s because home is where my bookshelves are. And certainly I feel more secure, connected, belonging in a place where my books are all out on the shelves. And as soon as I have taken all of my books down and put them away in boxes, I find myself caring less about the space. It is not home any more. There is nothing stopping me from packing the rest.
Also, this time, I’m getting a dog. I’ve wanted a dog or cat (I go back and forth) since I was in college. I wanted one when I moved to Richmond, but ended up renting a place with no pets allowed. This was a good idea this year, since I really haven’t had time for a pet, but it’s gotten past the “that would be really nice” point and to the “I am willing to make major sacrifices and life changes in order to have a dog.” Rent, for instance–I will have to pay a lot more, probably, for a dog. My housing options are limited. I will have to arrange my schedule around spending time with the dog. It will be expensive. Etc., etc. And yet I can’t wait. It’s all I can do to keep myself from smuggling a dog into my apartment right now, much as I tell myself that a cross-country move isn’t exactly the best thing for a new animal.
Big changes ahead. I have the same feeling you get in a canoe as you approach a rapid–you can hear the rapid, but you generally can’t see it, since it’s a downhill drop. All you can see is the smooth calm of the river stretching forward to a foreshortened horizon, and then nothing beyond–only perhaps one or two rocks jutting up, and the occasional flume of spray. All you can do is listen to the roar and try to gauge how big it will be from rapids past (who always sound much quieter by comparison), keep your oar in and dig your paddle deep, agree with your partner on the best-looking V, and go for it.
[Edit: Apparently I need to clarify that rapids are a good thing. Indeed, most of the time they're the high point of the trip.]
Big changes ahead.
The season of Lent draws to a close, and it’s been a pretty slack one on my part. Since I was raised an Episcopalian, and I pretty much believe in God these days, I figure I’m supposed to do the Lent things–give up something that I love but that’s bad for me, take on some kind of prayer routine, try to purify myself body and soul for the celebration of that strange and compelling and credibility-stretching event that is the resurrection. And I’ve been truly sucking. I managed to come up with something that would be actually good for me to give up (since giving up fattening/sugary foods doesn’t make me holier, just grumpier), namely, unnecessary spending. Then I decided that enjoying my time with loved one over food and delicious beverages was absolutely necessary, and well, the momentum has just run out on that one.
But I did have a bit of a Lenten epiphany, albeit a last-minute and a slow one, and it all came from my visit to the dentist.
I have terrible teeth. Terrible. Comes from poor/nonexistent brushing habits as a child and a 5-cup a day habit of tea with milk and sugar. I know that the tea is a bad habit, but I justify it to myself by saying, well, it’s my only real vice (I don’t smoke or get plastered or do pot) and I lead a stressful life and I need it to stay awake during the day and it’s even kind of classy, right, I mean, hey, tea is so British. And I keep on sucking it down, cup after soothing cup of black tea (Ceylon and Earl Grey or Chai if I’m at Starbucks), with an ideal mix of roughly two teaspoonfuls of sugar per eight ounces. And I don’t give myself a hard time about it, for the reasons described above.
But the dentist does not understand that tea is British and that I am a virtuous person otherwise. What he understands is that my teeth are decaying. (I’m not even going to name the number of cavities because I’m embarrassed. Suffice it to say that they will require more than one visit.) And, in the most charming way possible, he has given me an ultimatum: no more sugary drinks. Ever. Period. No excuses.
As I try to adjust to life without sugar, I find myself thinking about my other bad habits. I spend more money than I can afford in an effort to convince myself I’m not as poor as I know myself to be. (Yeesh, that’s a scary one.) I never ever do the dishes. I rarely clean my apartment, period. I ignore work that I don’t want to do in the hope that it will go away. I waste time on the internet when I’m at work. I don’t take care of myself, physically or mentally. I never ever learn my Coptic/Hebrew/Greek vocabulary. I say that I’m too busy to do things that I just haven’t bothered to do yet. I somehow, despite all of this, manage to feed my already-overlarge ego by feeling superior to other people. I look at myself in mirrors as I walk by. I go to bed an hour later and leave the house 15 minutes later than I intend to…every single day. I feel sorry for myself. I bite my nails. I drink too much tea.
Maybe I should work on these. The spending diet helped, and I think I’m going to try to implement a modified version for the rest of the year (while allowing myself to buy things that I need, just not right away). I don’t bite my nails as much any more; ever since the dentist fixed my chipped front tooth, I can’t get a really good hold any more. Training for the 10k is helping, too, though I have allowed myself to get behind with that. I have actually kept 2 to 3 days ahead all week (though, granted, it’s the first week of the trimester). But that leaves a lot still to work on.
On the other hand, I found that giving up sugared tea–which, as anyone who knows me can attest, is almost unthinkable for me–has been easier than I expected once the stakes got high enough. And if I can give up sugar in my tea…either I’m a lot stronger than I thought I was, or there really is such a thing as divine grace. Or perhaps both.
