Dear plank at work

Is there really anything else to say?

me

Dear Oversharer

A couple of weeks ago, I went to get my hairs cut. I was a little bit nervous because even though I don't have that much hair, there is actually still skill required in cutting it. I have learned this the hard way. When I first made the decision to stop the relaxing of the hairs and cut it all off (which always makes me think of the Kanye line that goes, "she had hair so long that it look like weave; then she cut it all off and now she look like Eve," even though my hair has never been long enough to fool anyone into thinking it was a weave, nor did cutting it off make me look like Eve, but still. The two are connected in my mind.), I believed I could go to anyone and ask them to remove the offending follicles and I would be set. That is not true. Even with no hairs, it can still be a messed up cut.

I have found one woman who has mad skills and cuts it for a mere ten dollars. She talks while she cuts it but not too much, which I enjoy. Frankly, the salon can be a touch intimidating to me. Usually, I look tore up when I go in and we women still don't support each other, so when we see another tore-up looking woman, we are secretly pleased, as if this means we are inherently better. All the men will be ours, we think inside. Except, it's not just inside. The judging shows on our faces. Our eyes glint and glare.

Then you sit in the salon chair and the stylist starts talking. I honestly prefer this to the stylist who starts asking me many, many questions. Most of which are personal, probably since they are performing a personal task. They are molding my head suit, to it's very roots. Surely they should know who I am seeing and for how long and where do I live and on, and on and on. If I were more of a sharer, I think I would find this delightful, but I am not, so all of my responses come out awkward and forced. Which I can feel, so I then compensate with horrible jokes.

Things don't often go well with the humans.

So, since I am not the type that goes to the salon hoping for chat times, I usually don't mind if the stylist does all of the talking, after ascertaining what I want done with my hairs. So when I went for my most recent cut, the stylist who always does a good job was gone on maternity leave and another stylist was there. The stylist must have been in the shop alone all day because the second I sat down, she started talking and she did not stop once until she removed the cape and I'd paid her. I know very many personal details about this woman, the former stylist (and how she STILL had not brought her new baby in), her daughter, her grandchild, the family drama, her lifestyle, her work schedule and several other things I blocked from my mind from sheer horror.

Truthfully, I don't mind that she told me what she did. I honestly feel like it is a honor to have someone else tell you all the things in their heart. We don't all just do that; except in my experience, everyone does do that, because for whatever reason, all people tell me their business. Even strangers.

"Oh, excuse me! I didn't see you there, complete-stranger Sherry. Here is my life story."

I mean, seriously. I have been in line at grocery stores, washing my car, pumping gas, waiting for a bus and heard all of the things about someone I have never seen before in my life. And not just, "you're waiting for the bus, too, huh?" It's all of their secrets, it's revelations about their family, it's admissions of depression and sadness.

And that's the part that gets me. Part of me listens because I am so sad that the state of the world is such that we feel like the only person to tell what we are holding in our hearts to is the random person on the street. Or maybe that is easier because we will never see that person again. There are no repercussions from opening up to a stranger, really.

Part of me admires it. I have people I have known for years, years, that I would never tell my innermost feelings, too. If they came straight out and asked me, which shockingly, very few do, I would still consider whether or not opening up was a good idea. I have run my mouth in the past and I regret a lot of those conversations. Not all; some of them were the wonderful kind. The kind where you feel freer from getting the burden off your shoulder and out in the world. The kind where you feel a bond with the hearer. The kind that give you the clarity to feel a bond with yourself. Most, though, were not that way. Most were, oh, Liantonio. Why do you ever speak?

Anyways...it was an intriguing haircut. The stylist talked and talked. She also kept asking why I hadn' t been in to have my eyebrows done since I always get them done there. Interestingly, I have only had my eyebrows done there once. I am pretty sure she had me confused with someone else.

Hmmm...maybe that was why she was talking so much?

Uhm...disregard above.

me

Dear Courage

I really want us to be the closest of friends. I want this because I just think you are amazing. I think you are full of power and that if I could just spend enough time with you, if I could just figure out how to hold on to you and make you stay, that we could just conquer the world. Or, we could conquer my world.

I will be the neediest of friends at first, I admit. I will constantly be looking for your reassurance and support. I will be desperately trying to please you. I want you to feel that I am worth your time. I want you to think the world of me. I long for you to wish to be with me always.

I need you because there is so much I want to do yet. There is so much that I feel needs to be said; so much that I have finally understood, or have begun to understand or even just realize. I want it to be known, but I don't know how to say it in a way that will be heard. There is so much that needs to be recognized; to be seen.

I locked so much away. I hid it, changed it, or denied it to please so many variations of others and it won't be kept in the tower anymore. Yet the habit means I don't know how to let it be free. The light feels too bright, the noises are too loud and there is no safety net. The uncertainty as to how to manage it or share it is maddening. There is always, always the fear of it being criticized or mocked or misunderstood. The fear is terrible. The idea that it would all be locked up again is worse.

I need your help while I figure it out. I will stumble and falter but I want to go forward. I feel like I can hear you saying to me already:

Things will change. There will be criticism and mocking. Some people are looking and others are not. None of that matters. It is too hard holding it in now. You have to let it go. You have to make the changes.

I already agree with you. I am reasonable, Courage. I will listen. I want to change. Changing doesn't seem so scary to me, honestly. I am afraid of doing it wrong. I am afraid of making more mistakes. I am afraid of more regret.

Someone said something today that made me think of you. They said they were ready to be brave enough to not hold on to the comfort of misery anymore. Or something along those lines, but I got it. I got it. I will need your help because I think the sort of fearlessness I desire will be isolating and I need you to remind me that it's still right, at least right for me.

I know how desperate I sound. I know that there are so many more important issues in the world. I know that to anyone else, it seems very easy. You just do it. I wish it was so easy for me because I think that I would do it if it were. For me, it is hard, and I want your help with that, too, please.

Please.

I will do the work. I will try to be better. I will sit in adoration at your feet. I will praise you to the hills. Take a chance on me.

What do you have to be afraid of?

me