Just a Haircut?

by Tracey Flower

I got a haircut a few days ago.

It was possibly the most significant haircut I’ve ever gotten. Not because of the style—mid-length, long layers and Heidi Klum bangs—but because of what I saw when I looked in the mirror as I studied my stylist’s handiwork when I got home. The thought I had then materialized spontaneously and was unexpected but so wonderfully and warmly welcomed that I haven’t stopped smiling since I heard it.

I look like myself again.

What? How is that possible? When did I stop looking like myself?

Allow me to explain.

Me sans makeup but loving my new (old) 'do. 

I wrote in a post a little over a year ago that I didn’t recognize myself at that moment.

I have returned home in poor shape. I’ve lost weight and sleep and I have a bad cold. Every time I look in the mirror at the moment I’m shocked to see the person looking back at me. I don’t recognize her, she looks drained, this person, she looks pale and weary and it’s hard to believe this person is me, I wrote.

I wasn’t in a great place then. And I’ve come a long, long way since that moment. Happiness and I had a big beautiful reunion six months ago and we’ve been strong and steady since. Finding peace had nothing to do with my appearance—something I’ve mostly just maintained, rather than remark at, under layers of beanies, thermals and snowboard pants during the past six months of the snowiest winter in Vail’s history (524 inches!). And I’ve pretty much accepted happiness as a part of my life at this point (oh what a sweet life it is) so it surprised me that there was still another bright shiny ray of it to bask in.

A year ago right now my hair was long with shaggy overgrown bangs, all of it a bit too heavy. The color was my natural blonde. When, well, we all know what happened, I chopped it off (as you do when a relationship ends). Months later, after I reunited with Happy, I dyed it red because I felt like a dramatic change to mark the occasion. It’s been some hue of red, or at least dark strawberry blonde, all winter under all those beanies. About a month ago I took it back to my roots and headed toward a golden sunshiny blonde again. It had gotten longer over the winter, and a bit unruly. And since beanie season is pretty much over (no more hiding) I decided it was time to head to the salon.

Now here I am with those freshly chopped layers and Heidi Klum bangs, a style I rocked for awhile back before it got too long and I got sad and chopped it all off. And, well, there isn’t much more to say than I look like myself again. It might not seem like a big whooping deal, possibly not even significant enough to blog about, but it’s a pretty damn remarkable thing to me, a girl who just a year ago felt she didn’t recognize herself.

A Little Thanks

by Tracey Flower

I had—wait for it—an Oprah moment the other day. Well at least that’s what my friend Mel called it but I’m pretty sure the talk show host would have deemed it worthy of a hug and a round of applause (and maybe an all expenses paid trip to somewhere balmy and exotic) had I been sitting with her on that infamous couch. It was a Sunday and my first day off since the (Vail) Mountain had opened for skiing this season. We had been snowboarding all morning and enjoying the better than average early season conditions. We had just gotten off a chairlift and were sitting at the top of a run marveling at the deliciously good snow and breathtaking views (note to self: remember to look up and have your breath taken away on a regular basis) and it hit me. I’m happy. I’M HAPPY. Like really contently freely happy. I shared this revelation with Mel and she declared it an Oprah moment. 

(Photo Credit)

This happiness is so new and so fresh to me that, in the days since that moment, I have found myself repeating it over and over to myself, I’m happy; slipping it on a few times a day like it’s a sparkly new party dress, twirling around in it and checking myself out from all angles. I keep opening the closet door to sneak a peek and touch it and make sure it’s real and still there. 

I’m proud of this happiness; it’s something I worked for, something I fought for, and something I achieved on my own (and with a little help from my friends). It’s something more solid and more palpable than any similar feelings I’ve had in a long time (I’m talking years here people). It’s peace. It’s contentment. And I’m loving every second of it. 

I wanted to share this with you, my lovely loyal readers, and thank you. Writing has always been therapeutic for me, especially in the last six months. Thank you for sitting with me while I kicked, screamed, cried, and muddled through my heartache. Thank you for listening as I exposed every feeling, emotion, and part of my pain, as I allowed them to reveal themselves to me, as I took the time to get to know them so I could eventually release (banish) them. It’s because I took the time to do that, and because you took the time to listen, that I know this happiness is something deep, genuine, and most certainly not fleeting.

There's an image I’ve been holding in my head a lot recently, it’s of myself about six months ago wandering around Melbourne in the rain and I’m too thin, sleep deprived, and incredibly sad and raw (I must note here that since I’ve been hanging out with this happiness I can see that there is something incredibly gothically romantic about wandering around a foreign city heartbroken in the rain). In this daydream myself now—my happy, peaceful, balanced, stronger, wiser self—reaches out to myself then and draws her in, comforts her, and asks her to join me here in this solid oh so happy place.

There’s a passage in the book Eat, Pray, Love (by Elizabeth Gilbert) where the author recalls a similar moment in her own life, where she realizes her current stronger self was always there waiting for her younger broken self to join her. She then uses her favorite Italian word to close the book, and that chapter of her life, attraversiamo. It means let’s cross over. And, so, my friends I invite you to join me as I do just that. 

Stay tuned next time for a little giving.