I thought about shaving my head today. I almost did it. I thumbed through the attachments, clicked the one-inch guide into place, and ran the razor slowly through my hair, pinching the strands at the end to approximate. I toyed with the idea of plugging it in, then prudence began to attach itself. I Googled pictures of mohawks, thinking perhaps a half measure would be enough, pictures of Rihanna with shorn sides, the top of her head unaffected (would a woman’s haircut work?). I think I look too much like me and it’s throwing everyone off.
When I was swimming in the deepest murk of eternity, in the swallows of pharmaceutical intoxication, I was convinced I had cut my penis off. The sexual implications are murky, I admit, but this wasn’t so much about being a woman as hiding myself completely, unrecognizably in an irredeemable act of escape. For awhile, I donned the mask of a young asian girl, and my waking dreams were aalmost anime. I didn’t become this girl, I hid inside of her. It was a guise so foreign that no one, not God or the Devil, would ever find me out.
I no longer believe in death as we fear and imagine it – it’s an abstract as unknowable as anything eternal. What I believe is that we dissolve and reemerge in equal order, and that if we shed all attachments, we might even be ageless. Even shorn, I possessed my essence, and I knew I would emerge safely, if unrecognizable, when I gave everything up.
But love gives soul to doubt and conviction dissolves as easily as anything else. I submitted to the backwards pull of emotion, and, as reality became manageable I allowed others to make me something resembling myself again. It’s hubris entrenched in cruelty to try to erase ourselves when so much still lives in others. That’s the inherent flaw in “irredeemable” acts. When they turn in on themselves, they reveal a desire, without a will to carry it out.