When a Breck Girl Cuts Her Hair

I know, I’m not 40-something anymore, but this event happened before my 50^th birthday. I would have written this sooner, but I had to wait until I stopped crying – I had to wait until I was older and wiser. Besides, I have a fondness for the 40-something Breck Girl and I don’t want to lose her.

I cut my hair last summer.

No, I FUCKING CUT MY HAIR! You’d have to be unnaturally attached to your hair like I am to understand the full magnitude of this event. First of all, I call myself a Breck Girl – what does that tell you? If I owned a motorcycle helmet I could be one of those sexy girls who pulls off the helmet and whips her hair over her head! I COULD BE ONE OF CHARLIE’S ANGELS!!

All because I was bored – and I don’t bore easily. We were on vacation in a beach cottage in Maine for one week only, and it was day four of cold rain. We couldn’t even enjoy sitting out on the porch without heavy clothing and blankets. My best friend looked at me and mentioned something about cutting the bad ends off of my hair and it went from there. I should have turned around the minute I stepped into the salon that looked like it was opened in the ‘70s and ran the same way (by the same stylist) since – but I was bored and we walked all the way to the salon in the cold rain.

I’m not Samson; my hair is not my strength, but it is my most magnificent decoration; better than any jewelry. When your hair looks good you don’t need makeup.  My hair was also something I was always able to hide behind. Tired eyes? Big ‘ol zit? Frown? Insecurity? You could never see them. My hair was my crown and my shield.

I enjoyed my hair, too. The best part about driving around in my convertible was the wind whipping through my hair (I never wore a hat or ponytail – and it was totally worth brushing the knots out for 30 minutes afterwards). After I washed my hair it was therapeutic to dry it and I loved how it felt on my back, warm from the hair dryer. My hair reflected my moods; I could fix it seriously, playfully, glamorously, and I-don’t-give-a-fuck-ly. I’m a fidgeter, too; I play with my hair constantly. And I appreciated it, and the fact that it forgave me for what I did to it during the ‘80’s.

My hair allowed me to feel in charge. If I was going through a really bad time, you could tell by my hair. One year for Halloween I dyed my hair black with permanent dye. I hated it (it was good for Halloween) and every time I looked in the mirror I would scare myself, and I had a few bad days where I may or may not have taken scissors to my hair in frustration – but it was good because of what it represented to me (even if my hairstylist would hit me with a brush when I went in for emergency repairs): control. Whenever I felt like I had no control over circumstances around me, I could control my hair. If it looked bad, I knew I was responsible and no one else. It was change that I was in charge of. And it was ‘safe’. I knew I wasn’t doing anything permanent.  That may be small to you, but it was a big deal to me and it helped out a lot.

My hair was a part of my identity; the good, the bad, and the ‘80s.

And it’s been gone. As if that wasn’t bad enough, the cut was terrible and I had to trim it every time I washed it. I could have gone to a salon to fix it, but they would have had to cut it shorter and I was traumatized enough. I did not have even one day where I could say, “Well, at least my hair looks good.” There’s enough talk of bad hair days for you to understand how I felt – and this was every single day.

This past year I’ve felt more exposed than if I were naked – that in itself was a hard enough thing to realize, because while I did know I hid behind it I did not realize how much I hid. I would look in the mirror and not even feel I knew who I was.

Just when I was beginning to think I had things at least a little under control …

But Facebook showed me a picture of my ‘memories from one year ago’ and I was able to see how much my hair has grown. Two weeks ago I actually had to pull it out from under the collar of my shirt. I can feel it touching my shoulders again. I can even put it up in a real ponytail – it’s short, yes, but it’s not a stub. My world is beginning to right itself.

I’m still a Breck Girl, as I still was this past year even if I didn’t feel it.  I survived. I got a new job that puts me in contact with new people every day, and I didn’t scare anyone off (at least, not because of my hair). I had good days, too. I enjoyed my summer vacation (although, I did return to the scene of the crime to lay a ponytail on the sidewalk in front of the salon as a memorial – and found out the salon is gone). I learned a lot about silly attachments and a little more about what I really need, and what doesn’t matter as much.

I learned a bad haircut isn’t necessarily a bad thing, even for a Breck Girl.

(But I’m glad it’s growing back.)

Where to Find Me Now That I'm 50

The purist in me could not write under the name 40 something once I became 50 something! Here ate the links to my newer blog, Instagram account, Facebook oh, and my Amazon author page:


The Formerly 40-something Breck Girl Blog
Amazon Author link
Facebook

COUNTDOWN TO 50 - The Last Friday Night of a Decade

Here it is, my last Friday night in my 40s. My sparkly 50^th Birthday tiara is sitting on my desk, all ready for Monday (it’s been there for almost the month), next to the glass of wine I’m celebrating this final Friday with.

The combination of anything sparkly (OOH, SPAAAHKLEY!) and the wine had already distracted me for a good ten minutes – once I noticed the reflection of the tiara in the wine. And then I had to take a picture (the staging of which took another ten minutes or so). I may or may not have tried taking a picture of the tiara ON the glass, resulting in flecks of glitter floating on top of the wine.

(I guess I’m going to sparkle on the inside as well!)

50! I can’t get over that. Since it’s so late in the year, most of my friends have already turned this particular corner. They now look down on me with the disdain of those a decade older (those who have ‘been there’ and ‘done that’), the look partially mitigated by a condescending smile – the same look I give to ‘kids’ in their 30s.

But I’m okay with that; that will be me next week.

One of my cats just jumped up onto my desk. He doesn’t give a shit about The Big Event coming next week – and I think he likes the sounds my computer makes when he sits his ass on my keyboard. I think he’s older than me, too, judging by the look he gave me after he sniffed the tiara (he already knows better than to go near the wine).

I had so much to say this week, so many things I planned to write about, but right now I’m just enjoying the wine and the night. And the wine. And 49.

And the wine.

As always on the last few days of September, everyone around me becomes just as excited for my birthday as I am – probably just because they can’t wait for me to shut up about it. But, hey, they’re still excited with me.

I love debating the common “Just Another Day” birthday theory. Uh, I don’t think so. The day itself is a gift; I have many friends who didn’t and won’t receive as many as I’ve had right now. You can be as blasé about birthdays as you want but you have to realize that it doesn’t have to be about anything special, just being ‘another’ day is a blessing.

Come Monday, I will have received 18,250 such blessings. I'm a lucky girl. 

COUNTDOWN TO 50 – No More 40-anything

When I turned 49 I realized that I’d have to change the name of my blog. A number of people told me I should still keep the name, but it would honestly bug me to be writing under 40-something when I was 50-something. That actually sent me into a bit of a panic; I loved 40-something Breck Girl, and I would miss her. Now, I know I’m still the same person, but I’m also aware of the changes I’ve gone through all my life up until this point. 

The Un-40-something Breck Girl; the same thing only different.

It was only last week that I finally decided to keep the blog name and just remove the ’40-something’ part (I couldn’t just change it to 50-something; that didn’t have the same flow – and where’s the imagination in that?) but I realized I have blogs with Wordpress and Medium, and Instagram, Twitter, and Tumblr accounts (and probably a few more) that are all under the 40-something Breck Girl name.

There’s also the problem (for me) that if I just change the account names the old stuff will be mixed with the new – and I can’t have that!

Two days ago, I finally decided to go with ‘Former 40-something Breck Girl’. I know; it’s not much of a change, but I’m happy with it. I’ll have to create new accounts with the new name now, too. It was my father pointing out something that cinched the name for me when he said that I could keep that ‘former’ name forever because I would always be that. It became clear to me that I should have been aware that any blog name would be temporary; not just because I had an age in the title, but because they were just titles. The books I write and am writing are published under my real name, and once I got more into that I was going to be writing everything under my real name, anyway. That actually took a lot of the pressure off of me!

Whew!

So, very soon I will have my own set of web pages under my own domain name (sueroulusonis.com) and I will link all of my accounts and publications to it.

I can’t even begin to say how happy I am about my upcoming birthday. I love that I’m turning 50! I can feel the changes coming (not just menopausal) and I’m really looking forward to these next ten years.

That’s not to dismiss everything that has happened and has been happening; I just feel like I’m finally coming into my own, and it’s pretty exciting!

In case I forget to mention this (like I almost forgot to write out today’s thoughts), I want to thank all of you who’ve followed along here. I love the comments and feedback, too.

Love,

The Future Former 40-something Breck Girl,

Sue Roulusonis

COUNTDOWN TO 50 - Turning 40

Turning 40 felt different than turning 30, and not just because I was older. Technically speaking, I never feel old; I’m older each day of my life, so whatever I feel different is new.

I love this looking back. I’ve almost summed up my thirties for myself, and now I’m thinking about my forties. At 40, I would have said that my thirties were the best ages, but I find myself on the edge of 50 saying the same thing about my forties. I find that unusual because during this past decade I’ve had more negative upheavals - or, rather, changes that were not of my preference – than I had in my thirties, and some of them still hurt even now. Realizing that I enjoyed my forties more despite the bigger traumas says a number of things to me about who I am – things that I am happy to learn about myself in my general outlook and … overall acceptance? (I’ll put all that into words later).

I wrote this next piece minutes into October 2, 2007. I remember thinking how clever I was when I was done!

***

“She took a shower that night, knowing it would be the last time like this. It was strange to think that in a few short hours things would be different. After her shower she decided to blow dry her hair. This was a luxury; with early work hours and children that have to be readied in the morning she would usually let her hair air-dry overnight to save time. But tonight was different; this was to be the last time like this. She stared hard at herself in the mirror, looking to memorize every feature as it was. When she was done with her hair she allowed herself a few moments to admire the end result before brushing her teeth, taking extra time and brushing more carefully, after all (as the thought kept going through her head) this would be the last time like this.

She checked on the kids, who were still sleeping soundly, unaware of the Big Change heading their mother's way. Made sure their clothes were ready for the next day. It seemed strange to her, going through the same motions that she had every night for the past decade as if nothing was different, or nothing was going to be different. But it will be different, she thought.

She looked at the clock. 11:39. Twenty-one minutes left. What else could she do for the last time? She went to the computer and played a couple of games of solitaire. 11:47. She turned off the coffee maker, locked all the doors, turned off all the lights. 11:51. It looked like it was going to happen no matter what. Accepting that there was nothing she could do to stop it, she sat down in front of the clock and waited for it. 11:55...11:56...11:57...11:58...11:59...here it comes, she thought, taking a deep breath.

And then it happened; 12:00 midnight, and...

Nothing.

She waited an extra minute. 12:01. Still nothing. Another minute. 12:02. Again, nothing. She walked back into the bathroom, studying her face in the mirror, looking to see that she still recognized herself. She smiled, feeling a little foolish, but feeling better now that the worst was over.

She went to bed, comforted by the sameness of everything around her, the usual noises inside and outside, the familiar feel of her sheets. As she drifted off to sleep her last thought kept repeating itself through her head.

Funny. I don't feel 40...”

COUNTDOWN TO 50 - The Start of the Countdown and Remembering 30

One week from today I will be turning 50 and will no longer be a 40-something anything. Many things have changed for me this year, not the least of which being the length of my hair - but I will always be a Breck Girl (have no fear, there will be more on that subject this week).

I will start the final countdown with what I wrote for my 30^th birthday. I wrote it the night Princess Diana died, caught in a particularly reflective mood thinking about her age and her young children. My oldest daughter was only 3 at the time, and any new mother can tell you all the awful things you find yourself thinking about with the first child. My relationship with her father ended within a year, so that time in general was particularly stressful. I was beginning to learn what I wanted, by learning first what I didn’t want.

So here it is, what I was only just beginning to see and still not able to put into full practice (Baby steps; I’ve come a long way since then, and better at living the ideals I started writing about):

"We Are...Women"

We are children. We are mothers. We are the same, just like you; But we are unique in so many different ways. We are not as young as some outside influences say we should want to be ideally, yet we are not so old as to be cast aside and forgotten --as no one at any age should be. We are old enough to know that which we did not know before, and young enough to realize all that we still have to learn. We are old enough to know our own shortcomings, and mature enough to take responsibility for them--as well as actions against them, We are young enough to still make foolish mistakes, and mature enough to be able to laugh at them and our own selves. We have learned where true beauty lies--And where lasting beauty lives. We have learned, and are still learning, a truer appreciation and respect for ourselves and our needs, as well as for those around us. We have reached a point in our lives where we can see the differences between our girlish dreams and aspirations and our adult choices and goals. Although we may mourn the loss of that childish innocence in our hopes for our own futures, we are learning to reconcile the reality of our actual daily lives with what we once wished our lives to be, and at the same time, we are re-learning and re-cultivating a new, child-like enthusiasm in the happy knowledge that our lives are becoming much richer and truer than what they were before, and, as we grow, that pattern will continue. We know now that we can leave our marks on our corners of the world, and we know how to go about it. We know now that the older we are, the better we are through our own life experiences, however painful some may have been.   We are even grateful for those painful events, for through them we've learned our own private strengths, which have given us an added confidence and sense of security in the fact that we are now better armed against future life trials. With the truths we've learned from our lives up to this point, we are able to stand proudly and face the world, secure in our new strengths, our newer self-confidences, and know that our lives are just beginning--- And we are ready. We are women.  We are over thirty -- And you can't touch us.

The Inspirational Deborah Lane Whalon

I’d known Debbie for many years, but only really got to know her during the last few. A few of my lifetime friends are her lifetime friends; our paths began to cross with regularity more recently, and enough for me to be forever grateful for that exposure.

The word ‘inspiration’ has been used a lot lately among our friends with regard to Debbie – and it’s true, but in more ways than we think. Even the best words can be inadequate when the full meaning behind them becomes lost in translation by overuse and simplified definitions.

I looked up the meaning of ‘inspiration’ and found a few, with slight differences: “A force or influence that inspires someone. The process of being mentally stimulated to do or feel something. A divine influence directly and immediately exerted upon the mind or soul.”

The first definition is the most simplified. That is the definition we relate to first when we hear or see something that causes us to smile in surprise or awe; when we are shown the good in the bad, or a light in the darkness. I’m going to take the liberty and combine the last two parts of the definitions for the deeper meaning: Inspiration is the divine influence directly and immediately exerted upon the mind and soul that stimulates one to feel something and act on it in some way.

This is what Debbie did. She brought a tribe together, and she will always be there to hold it together. Everyone around her took action in some way, ostensibly for her, but in actuality for all of us together because we are the ones who will continue to benefit from it from now on. Everything we think we did for Debbie at the time served to bring us out of our own selves and closer with each other. Through Debbie, we are more connected.

We post on social media about what our lives are full of. Debbie’s Facebook posts showed that her life to her was more than just about cancer. She incorporated it into her life because she had to, but only allowed it to take up so much space. She never let it define who she was or consume her.

(I have to take a moment to stand up for Debbie here. She had been accused of exposing her illness on Facebook for attention and sympathy, and it bothered her enough to bring it up a few times. To her accusers, let me remind you of one impact of social media: many of us use it frequently, posting pictures and interacting regularly. This actually imposes an odd responsibility in certain cases; someone who posts frequently would get a lot of attention if they just ‘disappeared’ from it - people would start asking questions and making assumptions publicly. There would also be public commentary if pictures showed drastic changes in a person’s appearance. Debbie’s ‘announcement’ nipped the likelihood of that open speculation and scrutiny in the bud, and she did it matter-of-factly, with class.

And to those that could really make that assumption of another in general: you may want to take a look at your own motivations if you truly believe that someone would want to suffer hardship as a means of gain.)

Debbie spoke her mind. She was one of the few people that could actually surprise me with what came out of her mouth. Even if we disagreed, I loved and appreciated her straightforwardness in her beliefs.

Visiting her in the hospital was eye-opening.

(This part, what I’m trying to say right here, is what I’m having the hardest time writing – the part that has had me sitting in front of my computer for hours today alone, and what has prevented me from writing this sooner because I’m afraid I can’t convey what I want to say to the full extent.)

For all intents and purposes, I was visiting a dear friend in the hospital who was very sick – but that’s not what I encountered when I got there. Yes, she was visibly ill, but if you took away all the trappings and signs of that illness, you had Debbie – or even Debbie 2.0. Even sitting in that hospital bed she was still a presence, a force, who seemed to get more of her life done in those few hours than I do in a day. It was almost like Debbie wasn’t sick; she just had many things to attend to and this was only one of them. There are many sayings about inner strength and what causes it to be revealed, but I saw more than that. Her inner strength wasn’t developed by tragic circumstances - it was more like what happens with diamonds, when the pressure brings out the shine of a divinity (yes, I’m using that word, too) that was already there.

And because I still cannot find words that I am happy with, I will rely on the phrase “awe inspiring”. She shone.

I briefly got to witness her interaction with her husband Scott for a little while (I had never met him before). In that short time I saw so many facets of their relationship, of their togetherness and love and mutual support. We talked about her son Tyler, too. Everything they say about a mother’s love was right there in front of me. Tyler, that kind of love will always be there for you.

Scott and Tyler shared Debbie’s last days here with everyone else. (That generosity will never be forgotten.) Even then, while heavily medicated, she made efforts to acknowledge her visitors. I can’t personally consider those obvious efforts a struggle because it was just more of Debbie’s own determination taking charge. It was … impressive.

I’m not the type of person to go to a cemetery to visit someone who’s passed; I visit them whenever I think of them. After the first anniversary of a loved one’s death I ‘forget’ the date and only celebrate their date of birth; this helps to ensure that my memories are happy and my heart is grateful. For me, to dwell on the saddest part of someone’s life does both of us a disservice. A life is full of so much more than what happens at the end. It is human tendency to avoid thinking about what makes us sad; by keeping my thoughts and memories on the happy, I keep them at the forefront of my thoughts – and keep those people with me, all the time. The pictures I save and display are usually of those people in their prime and at the peak of health so that I always think of them that way.

I have pictures of me and Debbie, both before and during her illness. In an unusual turn for me, my favorites are the ones of us together when she was presumably at her worst - pictures taken in the hospital, when she’s not wearing makeup or a hat to cover the hair loss of chemotherapy - because what I felt when I was with her then … what see in her eyes and her smile in those pictures … is Debbie at her most beautiful, her most divine.

And that is truly inspiring.

During my last visit to Debbie while she was in the hospital, she had asked me if I would write her story with her. She mentioned a few things that she wanted me to write about (again, more than just illness), and we set up a plan for how to go about it. That was barely three weeks ago, and two weeks later she was gone … but I am not writing this without her, nor will this be the last piece she influenced – or, rather, inspired.

Thank you Debbie, for the ‘more’ you showed me .

Deborah Lane Whalon
May 31, 1966 - August 7, 2017