Roots

I got them done, yesterday.

In a salon.

For the first time in twelve years, I walked into an actual salon.

It was frightening for me. I sat in the car and debated with myself for a while before I got out and walked to the door. I was so afraid that the staff would take one look at me and everyone would suddenly be too busy, because no one would want to touch the freaky long hair on the big, ugly fat broad. I did have one of those moments. I went in as a walk in because I was too chicken shit to make an appointment and then dread it and cancel, as I am wont to do. So I just made myself go in. The gal in the station closest to the door was friendly but busy with a client. she asked me a few general questions about what I would like then suggested that I go back and ask the other stylist on staff if she could take me as she was just wrapping up her client and should have the time. When I went back, tho that stylist told me that she couldn't because she was leaving to go do something with her sons.

What I heard, briefly, in my sick, twisted mind was, "No fucking way do I want to bother with you, you hideous hag".

Nice of me to pin something like that on a total stranger, huh? A total stranger who was, even tho she didn't have the time to do my hair, herself, perfectly nice about it. Yeah. The games I play with myself. The things I say in my head.

The first stylist I talked to was able to fit me in a little later yesterday afternoon, so I went back and got my roots lightened. I was so uncomfortable, at first, but as my appointment went on I got more comfortable and started to relax and stopped fearing judgement and hatred, which I certainly did not receive in any measure; she was perfectly lovely and friendly to me. I really like the stylist who did my hair and made a return appointment for my next roots touch up. I think that I actually have a stylist, now. Isn't that funny? And kind of great?

I always assume that when people meet me they are going to hate me on sight. Not only because of the fact that I am less then fabulous, but because I am not very likable. Stupid holdovers that I believe from my childhood. A childhood in which I was relentlessly bullied in school and came to believe, deep in my core that I was, still am, the things they called me. Stupid. Ugly. Weird. Useless. Unworthy.

I am proud of myself for ignoring the voices in my head (not actual voices in my head... Don't worry lol) and doing something that I wanted to do. Regardless of my weight or the fact that I didn't have the "right" clothes or a huge pile of money in my wallet, I did it. And I had a lovely time and I have fresh, bright roots.

Win.

A small one, to be sure.

But it is still a win.

I wonder if there will ever come a time when I don't automatically believe that the moment someone lays eyes on me that they hate me, instantly? Will I ever find confidence in myself? Regain my free, fearless spirit? Are they gone? Or just buried? And how the hell do I find out? And get them back?

Maybe yesterday was one small step in that direction.

I hope so. Because I am so sick of the me that I've become. I want my old me back. The me before.

Where is she?