When Jeanne first walked into the salon for a haircut, wearing a gray work uniform and her hair in a Twistie. I told her I would be right with her. As I finished the short, sassy haircut on my last client of the day, I could see Jeanne's eyes peeking over the half-wall that separated my station from the waiting area. Then, within minutes she was purring, barking, and lusting after my client's short haircut that she witnessed.
After I grabbed my bag, we headed out into the sunlight, my sensory neurons on my skin waking up after a long day of being inside. We embraced, and I could feel the missing her right in the center of my chest. As we ordered tea and sat outside in front of Betty's Diner in Berkeley, CA, we immediately got to the hair topic. She is having a hard time with it. She is a short-haired woman. Long hair doesn't feel comfortable or like an expression of herself. Even more poignant of action then.
We talked about art and agreed we needed to keep the art going. But do we need to let the world know about our craft? She doesn't think so. It's like painting in the back of the cave. Paint because you have to, and for nobody else to see. Somebody else will paint over your work. It's about the process, not the result. Art for money? That's a whole other conversation. Sometimes we feel more private with our creativity, and others must let others into our process. We agreed we thought many more people would be functioning adults if they had had their voice come out through something they had created.
By the end of our conversation, Jeanne thought that maybe she just needed a slight trim to give it some shape as her hair continued to grow. I agreed. I said she wouldn't be defeating the process by getting her ends trimmed. Was it a plea for her hair or about our connection? She might be moving, and that would sadden me. Maybe it saddened her as well.