bLue

 I dyed my hair blue.  The blond streaks responded well and perked up into a bright blue frame around my face, the grey hairs are now tinted like christmas lights, and the dark, regular hair colour is a shade of  black - dark looking in the house and alive looking outside.

Most people like it, or say they do.  I know I'm fifty and technically too old for this - but I'm also wearing leopard print and pairing it with opaque purple tights with feminist naming conventions - a nod into both worlds I am straddling - the gen X who hates rules and the child raised with rules.

I get on a video call with my mother and the first thing out of her mouth is IS THAT BLUE IN YOUR HAIR and continues down this questioning in a way, I feel, that's meant to shame me back onto track.  I just didn't let it bother me - realizing that no one wants their mother's approval for fashion related concerns, anyway.  But it tipped me off to something I knew but couldn't quite put my finger on:  the aspect of the religious folks in my life using shame to control me.

I say this, because I'm likely carrying shame over things - like my hair - that have no basis of shame.  It's the undertone of religion, in my personal opinion, the misogynist use of shame to keep women in line.  What will people think?  Don't you think you're too old?  Does your work mind?   Why did you do that?

I don't think I'll be remembered for my blue hair.  I think - hope - I'll be remembered for my sense of humour, my love of poetry and puns, my empathy and care, and my dislike of bullshit.  I hope when I die that if someone mentions my hair or my clothes that it causes a laugh - a smile and nod that it was "so chrissy" and more stories about how I made the world a better place.

I don't accept shame.  Especially for decisions that are not shameful.