So I was watching the news tonight and women are up in arms about some proposed legislation. Here is a list of some of the objections:
* Women should be able to do what they want with their own bodies.
* It’s not the State’s business…
* This is a private matter between a woman and her practitioner.
etcetcetc
What are these women talking about? Abortion?
no
Apparently, the State of New Jersey, in it’s attempt to keep women safe have proposed a statewide ban on the “Brazilian.”
heh
he won’t stop calling. i refused to answer his calls after my pain came back. i just couldn’t deal with the weight of him.
so, he calls, leaves manipulative messages in increasingly pitiful tones complete with cracking voice, “It’s dad. Call me. I just want to hear your voice. I love you.” and when i don’t call back, he starts calling my sister and telling her i must be dead or something.
sheesh.
One of my first memories of my father was when I was around three years old.
My mother was a beautician and she took particular pride in my long, blonde hair. It was probably close to the middle of my little back by the time I was three. My mother would do up my very straight hair in pin curls to give it a nice, tight wave, which was the style in the early 50s.
Anyway, I had decided that I wanted bangs. I have no recollection of why I wanted bangs, but this was of great importance to my little self. I asked Mom to cut my hair, but she told me that I had to ask my father’s permission. This made the necessity of bangs ever so much more serious.
I remember Mom walking me from the kitchen to the living room. Dad sat on the couch to my right and Mom, quietly on my left. I was a painfully shy child. The simple act of speaking was excruciating. Asking for something I deeply wanted, deadly. But I wanted this badly, so I mustered the courage and asked my father if I could have my hair cut in bangs.
Dad said no. I pleaded. He said no again. There may have been a spark of three year old defiance in my tone, I’m not sure, but he went on to say, “Do what you want, but if you cut your hair, you will no longer be my daughter.”
Whoa! If I cut my hair, I no longer have a father? So, my place in the world, my worth as a person, my very self hinges on the length of my hair? What does that make me? What am I? Even a three year old can figure that one.
I am nothing.
so, tell me old man, how much do you really love me? and tell me, why should i care?
i just want to be left alone. i just want to heal.
so…
I’ve been home from the hospital for 3 days now and Brni has been trying to get me to post, but alas, shock & trauma coupled with the haze of scheduled narcotics makes my brain a bit of mush. But he’s right — I do need to at least try to get the needle in the groove, so to speak.
see, already now, not even a decent paragraph in and i’m in trouble of drifting off…and you wouldn’t believe the typos…
Before I lose it, I need to thank everyone for the kind wishes, vibes, Reiki, thoughts and smoke that were sent up for me. It really meant so much and I’m sure I wouldn’t have survived half as well without all of you. so, h’ok….
I think it’s extremely self indulgent of me to consider posting a blow by blow account of *my surgery* but for some reason I want to. I usually refrain (or try to) from doing the “all me” show, but I think I can manage setting this down and maybe tying in some relevant stuff about modern medicine, the state of health care or some other things of great social import. Or maybe not. It could end up to be a how-to manual…who knows? We’ll see what comes from the haze.
I do know that before I tell you anything, it’s important to let everyone know that there are things you must consider that no one ever tells you before going under the knife. One thing in particular — hair.
Surgery ruins your hair. If you have longish hair, or really any hair at all, unthinkable things are going to happen to it. Consider having a friend do your hair in a nice tight french braid. This won’t save it entirely but it will considerably lessen the damage. Or, this may be the time to start those dread locks you’ve always wanted. You may not be able to keep them afterwards, but at least you’ll appear to have some purpose. Another idea would be to finally get that short short cut…the more butch the better. I wouldn’t go so far as to shave it though. The thought of days of head stubble is not a comfortable one. There was an older black woman on the floor who had the right idea. Wrap it all in a beautiful scarf. Men, don’t fret…if it’s long, go Willie Nelson on it. You won’t regret it.
In my case, I left it hanging just like it always does, figuring they’ll tuck it all up in one of those paper hats and aside from some tangles it’ll do ok.
~ heh ~
By day two or three (I can’t really remember) it was one big matted dread lock. Just one — all of it. Add to that, there was goop in it. Waxy, sticky goop that the nerve team had used to apply the electrodes to my head after they had taken sandpaper and sanded little bits of it down in several places. It took me until day 4 to get the dread undone. Not an easy task when you’re still lying down on it, but it IS possible with the proper motivation. Of course, all this time there’s no mention of washing it. Sponge baths get into all your nooks and crannies (somehow leaving whole pieces of paper tape all over) but never do they deal with your hair. I finally insisted on a real shower with shampoo on day 5. I just couldn’t face the world with my hair all goopy and broken (note: picking at the goop they put on it does not get rid of it, it just spreads it around).
Ok…I think that’s all I can manage for now. Next entry will have more about the actual experience, but I’m at the end of my endurance for the moment.
