(This is a text only post as I don’t want to use a funny picture or a snarky quotation. It’s terribly self-indulgent, but, this is the internet right? I wanted to write it down before I forget)
SELF – REMEMBER THIS
IT IS IMPORTANT
I sometimes make bad choices. And by sometimes, I mean frequently to always. If you give me the choice between something easy and something hard that will probably be a disaster… well, I’ll take B for $300 Alex. I get bored really fast and easy means boring to me. I know, so obnoxious.
Bad choices were made yesterday involving cinnamon whisky. I realised at 5pm, having only just had the courage to shower (the water was, like, so loud…) that I was supposed to be having my hair cut in an hour.
I whined to my friends, who told me not to be precious and get on with it. This was the correct response. I am a feral child.
New barber and I wasn’t thrilled.
1. No razor cut
2. No evening out of my neckline
3. If I say, “grade two fading to grade four”, I think that indicates I know what I’m talking about, no? I didn’t mutter, “a trim, I guess?”. This is not a two fade to four.
Oh, and I accidentally wore a see through shirt. Yeah. Believe me, sitting in front of a mirror, staring at your hungover face and exposed flesh is bad. Sitting there while a birthday party rages outside, to the chant of “21 and past it, 21 and past it”… well. It is a certain sort of hell.
I took about three thousand selfies on the way home, to confirm my first impressions. This is a bad hair cut. I have bad hair. I like having good hair. Good hair is my thing, like other people have being reliable or knowing how to make small talk.
“This is terrible”
“I can’t leave the house again, ever”
“I’m an idiot”
“I’m an idiot with bad hair”
“I’m an idiot with bad hair and lizard eyes and OH GOD I CANT COPE”.
(I never said I wasn’t overly dramatic)
I was quietly listing everything that was wrong about me as I fumbled for my keys in the hallway of my block of flats. This took some time as a) it’s a long list and b) WHERE ARE MY BASTARD KEYS (another thing to add to the list, being disorganised).
Being trapped in my own self indulgent loathing, I didn’t see her coming. I never had a chance. A weight hit me behind the knees and I nearly fell flat on my face.
Sasha had arrived.
Sasha is six or seven years old. I don’t know her mother well because uh, it’s London and we only talk to neighbours in times of crisis. She’s friendly and always amused by her daughter, in an quietly exhausted way. I like her.
Sasha doesn’t really speak words as such, due to some challenges she has but she does chatter. She likes to rub her cheek on my knee and look up at me with an expression I can only describe as, “oh, you’re here. At last. I’ve waited so long”.
She’s done this since the first time we met, by the way. And I don’t really scream I AM CHILD FRIENDLY. But Sasha doesn’t care. She just loves.
(Sidenote, I know there is an unhelpful and damaging stereotype about people with Downs Syndrome being “angels” or somehow nicer than everyone else. I understand this is not actually helpful and reduces people to a simple charicature. I do think Sasha would be Sasha with or without Downs Syndrome. She is pure joy)
I chatted to Sasha and admired her new cornrows, kneeling down to find the candy I carry around in case I see her.
There was a noise. Actually to call that sound a noise is like saying WW2 was a little awkward, or the Pacific Ocean is a tiny bit damp. Imagine the happiest car alarm you can, turn it up… bit more… bit louder… and you’re there. Nearly.
Sasha’s mother tried to get to her first but Sasha is super quick (one of the reasons we agree she should be a pirate when she is older). Making this noise of pure, unadulterated glee, Sasha started running her hands over the back of my skull, laughing and jumping up and down.
Have you ever really seen anyone jump with joy? It’s actually hard work. Imagine having so much joy you can’t help but jump up and down. I wish that for you, you know. I wish that for me too. So much, uncontainable joy.
So I knelt there, in the hall, while Sasha scratched and played and rubbed my too-short, uneven, bad hair, jumping with delight at the sensation on her hands.
There are moments in every day – golden moments – and it’s important to hold on to those among the drama and whining and dark depressing reality of adulthood. This was beyond golden.
My haircut is not good. Fact.
My bad haircut brought actual joy to someone who has done nothing but bring me delight for two years. Fact.
I love my new haircut. Fact.
Thanks, Sasha ♥️