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ferna
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I was on myspace, looking through the pictures on my profile, and I found one from a strange night back last summer. I can't remember why, but that night I'd cut my own hair. I felt the ends of the strands getting dry and tough, and they were still stained a bit orange from an auburn phase I had after my mom died. And I think, but I'm not sure, that I'd just gone through a breakup.
I stripped off my shirt, picked up a pair of scissors and climbed onto the counter in the bathroom. I sat with my feet resting in the sink, and started cutting. Inches fell and piled in the drain, on the counter, lodged in my bra.
And that night I wore the outfit I wore to my mother's funeral. A long-sleeved, form fitting black shirt and an ankle-length taupe canvas skirt. I went out with my roommate and his friends, and there's this picture of me leaning on a wall with two asian guys bookending me, laughing as they wrap me with their thighs. I'm staring down the camera, grinning the most satisfied grin, this look on my face: I have it all wrapped up, all peeled off, all figured out for tonight. And my hair falls a bit into my eyes, and I look like I could bed every and any man in the world and laugh and laugh at every one.
And oh, by the way, I do laugh. When I come, I laugh so hard. And sometimes when I'm nervous or excited. But one thing I never told anyone was that sometimes I am laughing at you, men. I am laughing at how different you are, at the gulfs between our bodies that we're trying to bridge. At the caves in your chests and the straight shot of your hips. I am laughing at you, at your malfunctioning hydraulic bodies, your floppy spongy chewtoy parts.
You are vulnerable and sad, men. It will take me days to understand you and years to teach you the beginning of me.
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070309
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