crucible of ennui

I’m cutting my hair tomorrow. I decided at the beginning of this year that I would grow it out one year and then get it cut, maybe even have 10 inches cut off to donate to Locks of Love, a place that makes wigs for children that loose their hair due to medical treatments for cancer, disease.

Hair cutting for women is different than when men get a cut. For women, hair conveys a vast array of messages.

Forced hair cutting in medieval times was done to shame a woman. Cutting and tearing hair are signs of grief in many cultures. Sometimes hair is hidden due to its many sexual overtones.

My favorite hair cutting story has to be a friend of mine, who in a blind misguided rage took scissors to her own hair. She had been arguing with her husband, went into the bathroom and emerged with horribly short hair. She was so angry that she wanted to make a drastic statement.

Wow. That’s some statement there, missy.

If I had more courage and knew I was going to get it cut short and styled… I’d totally try cutting my own hair. How bad could it be?!??!?

I hate zombies. Hate them. Some people have a thing against clowns. Some folks – it’s dolls and ventriloquist dummies. For me it’s zombies.

So I’m at the bookstore the other day and I see a copy of The Zombie Survival Guide by Max Brooks, the son of movie great-Mel Brooks. How could I resist? A manual that outlines what steps I can take to protect me and my own from a massive zombie breakout. Let me just say that this book is well written, hysterical and full of helpful hints that make all the sense in the world once explained. “Keep your hair short”, “2nd floor buildings are the best protection”, modes of practical transportation and how to travel through infested areas. It really is Complete Protection from the Living Dead.

I think my fear all started with a recurring zombie nightmare that started in my late teens. The theme would always be the same. But the first nightmare was the most horrific…

I am running through a graveyard, complete with requisite fog on the ground and above ground headstones, weatherworn and crumbled by time. As I’m running, hands break up through the ground, grabbing for my feet as I run over. It’s not long before the zombies are above ground, giving chase through the cemetery. I start to run slower and slower until the rhythm of my feet on the ground provide the tempo for “American Woman” by the Guess Who to start. And as I’m running away from the zombies with “American Woman” in my head, the hammering of my heart always wakes me up at this point.

To this day I can’t hear that song without feeling something bad is about to happen.