A Letter I Will Never Mail

Dear ___,
I just ate half a bag of spinach and thought of you. Not because you especially like spinach, but because if you were here we would have gone out for a real meal, somewhere.
I know that it’s been months- and months, and months, and months!- but still, I have not grown accustomed to you not being here. I want you around to check and balance me, to tell me I’m dumb and to give me praise in the moments in which it’s deserved. I miss your creativity, your passivity and your back massages. Though they weren’t in any way erotic, I loved having you touch me. You’re the only person other than my mother to clasp the contour of my waist, to feel each of the ridges in my vertebra and the curve of my neck in a very long, long time. I miss that touch, your touch.
And it wasn’t just your touch, but also your gaze and, more importantly, your admiration that I miss most. I love you as a flower blossoms: I slowly open as you shine upon me. Eventually, together, we make something beautiful, like tree branches against an intense blue sky or, more accurately (perhaps), flower pedals in a bed of wet dirt. It’s a shame that we’re both so practical, that both of us hate to waste time. And oh, my God! ____, how I wish you weren’t an atheist. For I imagine us living in a Howard Roark-esque home, lying beside one another on modern furniture and eating organic ice cream until we’re 100 years old, together. We wouldn’t hinder our relationship with words of unhappiness, we would simply endure, together, forever.
Like a forest.
Remember, _____, that I am, to an extent, forever yours.
I usually love you,
Katherine

My Knees Go Weak for Louis Armstrong

I’ve worn my hair short, long, curled, slicked back, in nonchalant ponytails and tight fishtail braids. I’ve had it colored deep black, golden brown, and once had bright red highlights that embarrassed my father and attracted the wrong kind of boys. Currently it’s a shade of eggplant and fades to lavender between colorings. I don’t remember what my real hair color is anymore, though I would hazard a guess and say that it is probably a dull brown, the color of potato skins or dried mud.

I’m not particular about my hair, and when I go to get it cut I rarely say anything other than, “Please, just make me beautiful. I trust you.” And then three hours later I walk out with a whole new look and the same attitude. I can’t remember the last time I cried over a haircut; it’s always been a very liberating experience, whacking off pounds or grams of hair and exposing a whole new me, only to find that I am still myself despite it all- that I am unchanged. I’m glad that I’m not that malleable, that my hair doesn’t define who I am.

A month or so ago, Vogue devoted an entire two pages to an article about the new shoulder-length cut (another insightful article from Plum Sykes…), as if it was some kind of daring, note-worthy move: cutting one’s hair to the shoulder (or, near the shoulder). It was silly. It was absurd. Cutting your hair to the shoulder and calling it chic is like playing poker only to fold every turn under the guise of playing it safe. It’s a lie and it’s boring. Please, women (and men) of the world- cut your hair asymmetrical, short, or give it interesting color. Don’t just leave it dusting your shoulders in a drab sort of way- give it some bounce and some life in the name of Spring!

In other news, I am totally addicted to live-streaming All That Jazz on WFAE. It’s the best jazz station I’ve ever had the pleasure of listening to.