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A month has passed since the haircut. One month, and what a difference. If someone had told me then that something so superficial would change my life, I'd have laughed.
But it's true. In the last month, I've been cited at work twice for superior service, and a couple organizations have even requested I work on their conferences. My boss says that, if I keep it up, I'll be due for a promotion in January, when Toni retires. That's right--no more cubicle.
I've also gone out on seven dates with five different guys, a couple of whom have potential. Tim, the one I went out with last Saturday, says I'm the most intelligent woman he's ever met. Mark, who I went out with two weeks ago and who's called me three times since, claims he's never met another woman so confident in herself.
What can I say? I am. Both of those. And good-looking to boot.
I was over at Star's today for lunch, and she noted it too, though not in so many words.
We were at the kitchen table, dabbing at the macaroni salad she'd made from a recipe she'd gotten off the Internet. "It's not that hard," she said. "You should try making it."
"Maybe I will," I said.
She smiled, put down her fork. "You know," she said, "we've been sitting here over an hour, and I haven't heard you once mention Ken. In fact, I haven't heard his name in weeks."
I put my fork then too, looked up at the ceiling and then out the window. I was trying to think of the last time I'd talked about him, the last real thought I'd had of him, of who I was supposed to be and who I was supposed to be with. My name, my boyfriend, my car. None of those things seemed to matter much anymore. I was just me.
What I needed, I know now, was a clean break, a change not just in the color of my hair but in the whole body of it, and by extension, in my whole person. I feel so free. I feel, finally, like me--Barbara Maria Nash.
But you can call me Barbie if you want. I don't care.
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