I dreamed last night that my mother cut my hair into a sassy style that I love, love, loved. It was short, but not too short, all tousled and cute.
In reality, the last time my mother cut my hair, I sat pouting on a stack of Sears, JCPenney and Montgomery Wards catalogs. She used a piece of Scotch tape and her sewing scissors to trim my bangs and even with those fancy precautions, my poker-straight hair went cattywampus. The tyranny of cowlicks cannot be denied.
More surprisingly, my hair color had reverted to its original chestnut.
Something shifted. The mood changed. My hair morphed into a mullet.
My mother disappeared. I stood in front of a mirror and glared at my reflection. Why did I let her talk me into cutting off my long, silver hair? It had taken me so long to grow it out, longer than it had ever been. Now it was gone. Snip, snip. Back to the beginning, Lisa Carole.
I woke up. My hand went immediately to my head. Still long.
I never know from what psychic crevasse my dreams pull themselves. What little thing or big thing or pattern of things stoked the engine of that train of thought? Was it the conversation I had with myself last week about the career choices I'd made? The fact that Chloe and I have been talking about what she's going to do after graduation? Could it be my involvement with the Silver Panthers, a mildly-militant group of anti-hair-color activists at the office? We do like to talk about how we liberated ourselves from the shackles of Clairol and told L'Oreal no más, merci.
Symbolism isn't my strength. I could guess what it meant. Rely on some half-formed assumptions I have about myself and my mother. Only half-formed because it's safer not to look directly into the sun.
A dump truck filled with what ifs backed up next to the bed and someone pulled a lever.
I drifted into a dreamless sleep covered up in issues like an old, worn security blanket.
MathMan didn't even stir.
Dream interpreter or dreamer? You're up.