Yesterday, while searching for some ancient cassette tapes, my husband came across two pictures of me. “The many faces of Beth,” he said, showing me an instamatic (remember those?) photo and then a Polaroid.
In the first, I was in my early twenties, dark shoulder length hair growing out from a bad perm (remember those?), too much make up (stage makeup in my defense) and a glittery gold and blue stage costume—hello, mini skirt! I thought, gee, my thighs were big.
I said, “Did I spackle that make-up on?”
The second, I was twenty-nine or thirty. The only hint of my age—the hairstyle and color. Long, stick-straight, dark brown hair… bleached-blonde bangs. I’m not kidding. I forgot how adventurous I used to be! (I performed/sang for a living so I could get away with looking… different.) I thought, Wow. What possessed me to wear that outfit?
I said, “My face was thinner then.”
Those two pictures, and the subsequent thoughts and comments, were clear indicators of how judgmental I am of my physical self. They were also reminders of the younger, more adventurous me. The performer me.
The me of yesterday. But that’s another post.
Mostly they were evidence of how often I change my hairstyle/color.
The day before, I had been happy dancing because I was listed as an HQN author on eHarlequin. Woo-hoo!
My husband said… “And you already look different.” Meaning my hair. That professional shot was taken, hmmm, four months ago?
“At least it’s the same color,” I said, acknowledging the style was different. What can I say? I fixated on the most recent photos of Reese Witherspoon. I wanted that hairstyle and I didn’t want to wait until my next hair appointment. I grabbed a pair of scissors and… now I have short bangs. Thankfully, I didn’t botch the job. In fact, I’ve been getting a lot of compliments.
When's the last time you picked up a pair of scissors or a box of hair dye and took matters into your own hands? Did it turn out well… or not? *g*