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It’s insulting, is what it is. That Chris should laugh and plead boredom when asked why he did it.
He knows what it means to you, he knows. He knows that the last time you did it yourself that it was about shedding those things that weigh you down; shedding the superficial parts of yourself to just be. Shedding the enforced Hollywood aesthetic crust to pour balm onto the shrivelled neglected creature underneath.
And he knows that, and he’s still feeding everyone this line. Because he was bored, because he thought it would be funny.
You’re angry-hurt. Or is it hurt-angry? Does the word preceding denote the dominant emotion?
All you can think about is that phone call the last night you did it yourself. September 2014. You were only a handful of nights away from your pilgrimage to purge yourself of everything weighing you down, holding you back.
But vanity had gripped you at the final moment, stayed your hand. Your hair isn’t you, but it’s what signifies you to other people. You were scared that it was too aggressive; that being on an emotionally-charged film set only a week before and then shaving off all your hair was too B-grade celeb, too Britney-at-her-worst.
Chris had heard the real questions underneath.
What if they thought you were doing it for attention? What if you were doing it for attention? Because the action doesn’t exist without the intent.
But Chris is an any-means-to-an-end kind of guy. So what if your intentions aren’t pure? You’re not a monk, he’d said. If you’re looking for clarity, isn’t bringing your mess with you to sort through kind of the point?
Things are clear to Chris in a way they’re not clear to you.
Does that make it better or worse that you didn’t get the courtesy of the same phone call? Is it better or worse that Chris could shed his own self-doubt and vanity and foibles, and achieve in solitude what you needed coaxing from others to do? Is it better or worse that what was monumental for you is a sick-day pastime for him?
You call him before you have a chance to detangle your emotions, accustomed by now to bringing your mess with you when you talk to him. He answers lightning-quick on the first ring, but there’s a wary beat before he says hello.
It's the wariness that gives him away. Now you know he knew exactly what he was doing—and how you would react—and he did it anyway. He knew, and now he’s embarrassed, so what the hell does he want from you?
And you know you shouldn’t—you know that he hears criticism even in compliments and that you’re hurt-angry or angry-hurt and that this is going to do damage that you won’t be around to repair—but his wariness is infuriating.
The only way to soften the blow of your anger is to express it as concern and, yeah, maybe it’s condescending and, sure, maybe he’s a grown-ass man, but you can’t have the full-blown argument (the one you really want to have) over the phone so this will have to do, for now (for ever).
Chris takes it the way he takes everything, quietly and slowly, like he’s wading through the still-water-drag of his own thoughts, trying to keep up with someone running on land. There’s a delay on all his responses, reacting to what you said one-two-three thoughts ago, like he’s not done thinking it through. He’s not done thinking it through, but you haven’t thought it through at all.
Maybe, if you were having this conversation in person, he would pick up the little cues that he’s missing while trying to make sense of his own thoughts. Maybe then he could see how white your lips have gone or how sweaty your lower back is or the clamminess of your hand where it grips the white marble of the counter.
It doesn’t take long for you to run out of your own bullshit and you hang up just as you’re about to say something heartbroken-honest like, I thought it looked good. How are you always so brave when I’m not? Why do the things that have taken me a lifetime to learn come as easily as breathing to you?
Because he was bored and thought it would be funny.
~
You’re in on the joke, now, and maybe you’re bored, too.