When I was a child and had the chicken pox my mother hid all the mirrors from me. When she left the room I rose painfully on the soles of my inflamed feet on the couch and peered into the mirror above me, and screamed. "I will never be beautiful again," I said hysterically, which is some kind of emblem of my conscious being, the solipsistic fairy tale where I am the maiden and wicked queen together.
In what was kind of an emotional thing I decided to change my look. Last September after the BJD convention I got a hime cut, then got my job in October. I fought with my hairdresser over the cut and enjoyed the results, even though I didn't have the time to style it with my new job, and it looked dreadful pulled back. There was no way I could drag my princess hair in solvent waste.
Life changed, and I did not know what to do with my hair. I knotted it in the bun each day and eventually stopped trimming my bangs. I pinned them back with the length, which looked ghastly.
It has been months since I trimmed them, and they have scarcely grown. They still hang like they are waiting to be trimmed, just a few weeks past a required trim. I have wanted so much for them to be gone. I want to forget I ever had them, or the hime, but I can still see those pieces.
But I look at my MySpace pic from one year ago, at my face framed in the haircut, perfect bangs, and compare to my present dilapidation, and I want to wail, for I will never be beautiful again.
How can a year make such a difference?
What about my Innocent World dress?
I know at least it isn't just about my hair. I feel an autumnal fear. I fear my body dying all around me. I fear it's too late, too late. I don't understand.