A Short List of Moving Taboos

It’s week 3 and the harmonies have come to a screeching coda. I’ve inquired about three different jobs and received none of them—although the bakery did hire my oldest son. I’ve made 20 jars of jam, a gallon size bag of granola, and drove for an hour just to deliver my husband a thermos of coffee which turned out to be sour. I didn’t even know coffee could sour. And I love coffee.

So today I walked in circles around the house refusing to do any of the many things that demanded to be done. Instead I looked at my reflection in the mirror and blamed the haircut for this mess. I have learned that there are a couple things one should not do when moving (or pregnant for that matter—which I’m not, don’t worry): Don’t eat so much chocolate that you need to unbutton your pants, because you never know when you’ll need to stop at a gas station or take a walk downtown. Don’t cut your hair because vanity is an extension of identity. It can be the cutest, but if inches are shed at the wrong time—such as resigning from a role you have possessed for most of your adult life—it will feel as though your head is naked. And in turn you will feel naked. And this is not necessary at all when it would have been less devastating to walk downtown with your pants unbuttoned.

I shouldn’t have cut my hair. I’m a stranger in life and a stranger in the mirror right now. But there is an odd solace in knowing that by the time my strands have regrown into their tangled mess, I will have found myself at home here. It’s as though two sets of roots are growing—one deepening and the other lengthening. My hope is that one day I will wake up, recognize myself, and realize I belong here.

Until then, I should send out a PSA to the town of Bath, ME, to simply ignore the girl sending out a writer’s resume for the desk job at the Y, or the cashier at the bakery, or a substitute at the schools. If I come for an interview and my hair isn’t half way down my back, just don’t bother.

It would seem that the hardest part of resting is—quite honestly—getting reacquainted with me.


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