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Dream: 12.20.15

December 20, 2015

I have a special event, a formal dance, I’ll be attending later tonight with my new love. I have a great new outfit that I feel beautiful in, and my new love has a wonderful dress to wear. I can’t wait to show us off as a couple to our whole community! I’m planning to dance all night, to hug her and kiss her and oh, it’s going to be grand!

But first, my hair… needs something so that it fits my new glamour.

A friend of a friend who is an acclaimed, highly original hairstylist has agreed to do my hair, as a favor to their friend.

I don’t even really care how my hair ends up looking. It’s just going to be SO GREAT to have someone really talented and skillful to make a fuss over me. Like I deserve to have a fuss made over me. It will be so great to stop worrying and fretting; just relax into the process, be thrilled and appreciative, and then go to the dance and have a great time!

{Anticipation is a big part of my enjoyment of any cool thing.}

So, I’m hanging around the salon, waiting for my turn in the stylist’s chair. He’s finishing up his last client before me, and the client’s hair looks amazing. I burble how seeing it has given me all sorts of ideas, but I hasten to add that of course the stylist’s professional judgment is primary. I laugh. I’m just so giddy, you know?

First, though, it turns out that the stylist has some errands to run. But I’m welcome to come along. He’s got to somehow arrange his schedule so that he can spare the time for the freebie appointment with me. It won’t take long.

Except it does.

Occasionally, I feel time passing, but if I protest against all these errands {how many can there be?}, what if the stylist gets angry? Refuses to do my hair after all? What if he yells at me? Probably he wouldn’t, right? But he’s got to finish sometime. Then it’ll be my turn. I just have to be patient. And the results are going to be so great!

Inexplicably, we’re walking along a beach. Somehow I find myself telling him about being autistic. And he actually seems to be listening. I’m enjoying that enough that I’m almost starting to relax, despite the schedule.

Finally, we get back to the mall where his salon is. My entire day — that I’d planned on getting ready very leisurely and joyfully — has evaporated. I’m nervously walking around the salon, looking at things. A woman, a stranger, appears at my elbow and shows me to the door to the mall, where she says, “We have lots of tiers”. I mishear her, think she’s talking about “tears”, so I’m disoriented. When I understand, I say, “oh, I don’t have any extra money. Also, I have very little time left. I have to get my hair done. Now.”

Only then do I truly notice the male stylist is nowhere to be seen.

The woman shushes me, then says, “Okay, I’ll get set up.”

It’s not my life that passes before my eyes, but all my lovely plans, wishes, and hopes, as I realize I’ve been fobbed off.

For a long second, I consider how I could maybe send a coded message to my sweetie, through someone at the salon, that my plans have had to change. But, nah.

I walk out the door.

My outfit is in a locker somewhere, as are my street clothes. I’m leaving my whole life behind me.

+++

NOTES:

Last night, I wrote about P, my therapist from 2014, and how I’ve not yet written the summary (I intended to write) of our time together because I’m still angry about how she repeatedly pushed my boundaries. When I woke up, I thought perhaps this dream was about all that.

Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t. Thinking about her makes me angry and bitter, though, and that seemed wrong for this dream. I kept thinking.

= = =

Thing is, I’ve been dreaming about issues with my hair for… 2 years? At least.

I don’t like how my hair looks right now.

I’ve had a love/hate relationship with how my hair looks… all my life actually.

So the dream could actually be about my hair.

But that didn’t seem quite right either.

= = =

I’ve gone to hairstylists in 5 states, and none of them ever know what I’m talking about. {The story of my life, really.} So, last year, I started cutting my own hair: at least if I screw it all up, it didn’t cost a pile of money, and I didn’t have to pretend I liked it to save the stylist’s feelings.

It actually looks decent.

I don’t care much about how it looks. Exactly, sort of, kind of.

The important thing is… it’s mine. It’s a look that I’ve designed/created. It doesn’t matter what it is.

It doesn’t have to “look good”, to the standards of normal people anyway. It doesn’t even have to “look good” to me, exactly.

I don’t care how it looks. But it needs to be mine.

I need to recognize it as being mine.

It needs to be blue. Or blue and green. I can’t figure out how to resolve that without involving scrubbing out the tub, which has been enough to stop me from trying to color it myself at home. (I have the dye; I did the skin tests months ago.)

I’d rather have a stylist color it! Save me the bother and fretting and mess. But no one ever knows what I’m talking about, and the results of what they thought I wanted are crappy. (And I’m out the money. And the color washes out too soon.)

= = =

Months ago, I thought of cutting my hair with pinking shears.

I don’t own any pinking shears.

The idea wouldn’t go away though.

Maybe I can’t do anything about blue and green right now, but I could just buy a pair of pinking shears.

Every time I thought about doing it, there was some reason why it was a bad idea right now. Soon, soon, it’ll be the right time. Just not now. Be patient.

Meanwhile, every time I look in the mirror, or take a selfie (which I rarely do anymore), I don’t like how I look.

But it’s not a Big Deal. Right? It’s just hair. Why am I making Such a Fuss over Nothing?

= = =

Today, I went to JoAnn’s and bought a pair of pinking shears.

But I didn’t cut my hair.

Spouse is home. I need to be alone. Spouse took a vacation day Monday too. (Ugh.) So I’ll have to wait until Tuesday to have the apartment to myself. Monday’s supposed to be nice weather; rain again on Tuesday, which will likely depress my mood.

I got on Twitter, to distract myself. #autchat was just starting up (which I tend to forget about). I jumped right in. I misread something, and started responding to questions from a previous edition. Ironically, what I said was how much I liked that other autistic people believed me about my own life experiences, and didn’t assume I was mistaken or stupid.

I had noticed that others were answering what appeared to be 2 sets of questions. I thought maybe the list had changed topics midstream. (Which was weird, but hey, stuff happens).

Someone responded directly to me, though, to say how much they disliked it when people answered the wrong questions. I didn’t understand what they meant at first. When I did, I immediately felt… stupid. And unwelcome. I was engulfed by a shame spiral. I sobbed. I shut off my phone. I felt humiliated and outcast.

You know, I should have just… cut my hair.

= = =

I want something (that I’ve long anticipated) to feel good before I even start. To boost my emotional energy levels so that I want to start the long process of doing the thing.

Instead, too often, I start from feeling horrible and unloved and ugly. And guess what? I never reach the emotional space where creating something marvelous becomes possible.

+++

I’m now realizing that I have a love/hate relationship with directly collaborating on a creative endeavor with someone.

It seems like it would be ideal. Except that… I can’t make myself understood by the other person. Every instance I can think of (off the top of my head)… was a disappointment.

Indirectly, though, can work. Because I don’t have to talk to anybody. I don’t have to convince them of anything. I just take their contribution, as is, and put my stuff on top of it (or vice versa). No discussions.

= = =

In the dream, if I’d… styled my own hair, how would the narrative have changed? If I’d made my own dress? Created a dance to perform?

Nobody else would like any of it. But I would recognize it as being me. It doesn’t have to be attractive, but it does have to bring me joy.

How can I do more of that?

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