Outside the practically scripted structure of the library, the rules of my game of attraction change. There is no search of interest in widening eyes or a head-dip. There is only one rule, really, and that is to look good, and that’s all about the hair. Shaving happens when I feel like it, clothes cover me, and I’m in good shape. Hair is my vanity, and I’ll pay for the extra hot water it takes to wash and condition it now that it’s grown out, and for the detangler and oil. If I feel I look good I feel good, and I’m the opposite of celf-conscious. I don’t swagger; I just feel good. If there’s interest, I don’t notice.
Now that Julie’s back, outside the library is where I’d rather be. With a weekend between us, it was easy writing that first paragraph . Now I consider shaving the evening before the new week begins, and her face floats up before mine as the reason to shave. So I won’t. It didn’t stop me from washing my hair, though. My rebellion in that arena is not having it cut. I know no one at work likes it. The next time someone says my hair looks good will be when I cut it short. They can hold their collective breath. I’ve spent enough time trying to impress the unimpressable. It’s time I impressed myself–and anyone else who can appreciate me as I am.
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