what I write about
she has fallen and now she is awake
Y’know, those CURLS and that COLOUR and the FEEL and blahblahblah. I mean, it’s cute as fuck, but I get so icked when people start on about it.
Add in Bunbun’s love of water, love of physical activity, tendency to sweat profusely, aversion to hairwashing and total screaming condemnation of hair drying, and you’ve got some fearsome hair styles. Which we don’t care about. But you also get some fearsome stank, which we do. We cosleep* so hair funk is an uncool way to wake up.
I first cut her hair to get rid of the baby mullet when she was about 8 months old. Just a few snips in the bath – I save the hair though. Second haircut was post-flu because weeks of her hair getting stuck in eye goop, snot or spit was just too tragic. I saved some of that hair too.
Now I’m thinking of cutting it again – not a bob, not a trim, not a fringe. A real short hair cut. Pixie even. And damned if I can’t find a single blood photo, or story, or HINT that anyone else has done this. Not ‘repaired after a self-done job’ and not ‘making do with toddler fine hair’ or anything like that. And certainly not ‘dad-hair’ (fuck that gender essentialist bullshit).
Someone else, somewhere, must have deliberately and wilfully cut their daughter’s hair shorter than their chin. I’m talking Audrey/Amelie pixie here. Proper short. Dry in minutes, wash in seconds, short short short. But still not a crewcut or clipper job.
I don’t have an emotional attachment to her hair. I’ve never wept over it, for all I have kept the snippets (and lovely little things they are, perfect for doting grandparent presents). I don’t identify with it, or long for it, or dislike it. I do emotionally react to the way people perceive her hair and my relationship with it – I mightily dislike the assumption that Wolfman is behind the haircuts, that I must ADORE her hair and that I must want it to be longer.
Yet I haven’t cut it yet. I fear that my reaction to others is behind my desire to cut her hair. That I’m making feminine an uncomfortable place to be. Which is very much not my intention but I still fear it. Mostly because I’m growing my hair and I don’t feel the same way about that as I do about her hair. Wolfman pointed out that I’m not nearly as sweaty (usually), don’t put up a fight for washing and don’t need to be chased around to dry it. I don’t think my choice is entirely practical though – for all the lack of emotion I have about her hair, I have an excess when it comes to femininity. I have a horror at how constrained she is by her gender, how much judgement she already wades through when it comes to the existence of being a girl.
So I cut her hair again, just her fringe, and try to work out what my deal is. What I’m going to do about it.
On my way home yesterday evening, a freight train passed us in the opposite direction. The fading sunlight reflected momentary rainbows as we passed and as the night rose. It was really lovely.
fifth week herbs by geekanachronism, on Flickr
My herb garden is growing quite well. An early casualty in the thyme, then gifting the coriander to a workmate, only to receive garlic chives in return! Still no garlic but I have high hopes for next week. I’m planning on tomato as well.
To touch something real,. Will help your wounds heal – Whitley More Than Life. It seems to help, it must be said.
Watching one of my favourite patrons at work win something today. For everything else that went to shit for the day, that made me really happy.
Mofo and The Artist and their kiddo, The Lawyer, have been in the state and visiting. He’s a biggun, homebirthed, breastfed, all that crunchy stuff. And ADORABLE. We’ve been doing the rounds of various cafes and restaurants and are due for breakfast out tomorrow. Which is one of the many many things I miss about Melbourne (first and foremost is the people).
I’ve been taking time out on the patio with the garden, Bunbun and the ubiquitous blue clamshell. In the afternoons and evenings it is really nice.
fifth week paddling by geekanachronism, on Flickr
I keep going to write a post, but end up writing something terribly cranky. Either railing against idiotic ‘sex advice’ that boils down to “buy stuff!!! Ignore comfort!!!” or the new years round of ‘let’s lose weight, fatty fat fat mamas!’. I was in fact complaining to Wolfman yesterday that everything I wrote came out far more “rar you’re all fuckheads” than “I am legitimately disturbed by these articles and blog posts”.
He wanted to know if I had indeed simply written ‘rar, you’re all fuckheads’.
It made me laugh (which was his original agenda I think) but also made me step back a bit. Rage is not in short supply. I don’t need to point out how irritating vapid and shallow ‘wear a thong’ is when you’re attempting to get back into having actual sex with your partner. I don’t need to point out that the societal obsession with mothers erasing all evidence of motherhood from their bodies is obnoxious and dangerous. You all get that. I simply need to breathe. Write. Breathe some more.