In Ancient Greece, cutting one's hair indicated one of three things: loss of status, being a slave or a major life transition (like entering adulthood, marriage, or mourning). It got me thinking about all the times I cut my hair...
My life. Transitions.
This is my raw, unedited attempt at making sense of who-I-am. By the age of 37, I have moved so many times, reimagined myself again and again, made so many mistakes. I can't even remember all the versions of myself that brought me here. I cut them out with my hair.
But they always come back.
It sometimes feels like being haunted by strangers: who is this girl smoking a cigratte, walking alone down the dark streets of V. in the middle of the night. She is only 15, she is so reckless. This is so dangerous! I shudder. What does she want from me?!
In this journal, I hope -- through writing -- to get re-acquainted with her and all other women (young and old, real and imagined) who shaped my idea of femininity. I want to give them their own names, to allow them to be seen for their own sake. Not as fragments of me, but as their whole selves. No judgement, just love.
Read them. See them. Allow them.