Fog Moon, Ancestor Moon, Moon When the Deer Shed Their Horns. This November Full Moon in Taurus is a time of high emotional intensity, one for exploring the world of dreams. Big surrendering to the unknown and embracing our personal power vibes. It’s also a total lunar eclipse, like a full moon on steroids, the last one ‘til 2025 (if we get there). Like all things Taurus, the emphasis is on physical experience — get in *touch* with all of your senses.
Holy shit did you guys feel that fucking moon??? All my zodiac girlies (The Pattern app, Rob Brezsny’s newsletter, and the TikTok algorithm) were freaking out and shaking my shoulders screaming about the intensity of the lunar eclipse super blood moon clusterfork but DAMN, I haven’t slept in DAYS everything feels SO MUCH ALL THE TIME I am actually so unbelievably bottom of my soul tired I don’t think I’ll ever do anything again!
Anyway that’s why this letter is late, but somehow it feels appropriate that the full moon got in the way of me sending the newsletter that I chose to schedule around the full moon. Life, art, imitating, time is a flat circle, anti-capitalist praxis, etc. Here’s an essay about getting a bob and losing my sanity.
A very shitty astrology website once told me that Leo Risings (it’s me, hi, I’m the problem, it’s me) have the mane of a lion. That their hair is always full and flouncy and free, like the king of the jungle’s. I think most people who have ever seen my hair would respond to that with, “yeah dumbass because astrology isn’t real and women are stupid.” They don’t usually say the second part but they mean it!!!
I have quite fine (as in thin, not as in how you doin’), mildly wavy hair, a ‘do that strongly resembles the locks of the Jane Austen adaptation characters from which I emotionally and genetically descend. It needs a lot of extra help to stand up, and will immediately fold under the lightest pressure of a leave-in conditioner or emphatic gust of northernly wind. It does not hold up well to the patriarchal standards of ‘pretty girls have long hair’, nor the ozone-antagonizing southernism of ‘the higher the hair the closer to God!’. My hair is like me: tired, bendable, and more comfortable under a hat.
But last week I did something completely psychotic; I booked an appointment with a queer barber from TikTok and asked for a FRENCH BOB. WITH BANGS.
I know what you’re thinking: I’m an idiot in a long line of idiot Americans who romanticize something French and feel burning regret once the decision has been executed. Or you don’t have child of the south brain disease and you’re like “this girl who claims to be politically progressive especially when it comes to ideas about gender presentation sure is being dramatic about getting a fairly normal haircut”. My brain agrees with the latter. My heart…. my heart is convinced the receding hairline on the right side of my head is trying to kill me.
The TikTok girls who made a trend out of shaving their heads during lockdown have been haunting the back of my mind every time I give up on styling and bury my hair in a bun. Which has been, like, every day for the last six months. I want to be them, I want to be that free, but I’m a millennial/gen z cusp, and I am constantly swimming in the tension. So I took a 45-minute subway ride to Williamsburg and cut it.
My brain tried desperately to get my attention to warn me that I might seriously freak out if I did something drastic. I ignored her and chatted with Jessie about growing up gay in the south while the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end as they were sacrificed for the sake of the bob.
As I stared into the full length mirror ahead (my favorite place to learn about my newest body dysmorphia symptoms), Fleabag played on a vicious loop in my head.
“Anthony… Hair… Is…. EVERYTHING.”
I don’t want her to be right but the bell of truth rings somewhere in the distance. “We wish it wasn’t so we could actually think about something else occasionally. But it is. It’s the difference between a good day and a bad day. We’re meant to think that it’s a symbol of power, that it’s a symbol of fertility. Some people are exploited for it and it pays your fucking bills. Hair. is. everything.”
Like of course I don’t believe that a hairstyle has a determination on anyone’s intrinsic value. But I definitely feel like I can’t be seen in public today because my bangs dried weird.
What follows is a recorded transcript of my inner monologue upon exiting said hair appointment with a fresh too-short-for-the-bun-your-worth-depends-on cut.
It’s chic!
You look like that horrifying Lord Farquad Harry Styles meme!
Wait but not at this angle and it’s better if you mess it up a bit!
You’re a little lad who loves berries and cream!
Now you’re really being Dramaddison, just aim for 2001 cult classic “Amélie” and start acting more weird and mysterious and people will buy it.
I don’t think you’re allowed to claim weird or mysterious culture if you have a Substack of personal essays where you kind of over-explain most of the thoughts that pass through the wind tunnel of your brain.
Okay…… your hair looks good you idiot it’s the inside bit you need to work on.
And it is! It’s the confidence thing that everyone blabs on about. Fake it ‘til you make it, or fake it ‘til they can’t tell you are. Fake it ‘til you figure out how to style your bangs and actually that will probably solve most of your larger life problems.
Unfortunately I still tie a lot of emotional attachment to my hair especially as it relates to gender and the performance of it, specifically the nagging old woman in my head that chases me around yelling, “not feminine enough! not pretty enough! not what a lady would do!!!” every time I buy another pair of men’s shorts on sale at Pacsun because a TikTok lesbian told me to. A lot of the messages thrown at women like poison darts in 2022 seem to repeat that line of logic — you must be actively performing femininity at all times or you risk losing the attention of the men, and then you’re no use to anyone at all.
I would love to be absolutely useless. I YEARN for uselessness, for a life spent lolling and lazing about, luxuriating in the fascinating facets of existence and laying down the burden of being constantly perceived. I don’t usually mind how the mantle of womanhood looks on me, but it often gets in my way when I’m trying to do literally anything else.
The thing about my new gay-er haircut that helps me feel more visibly queer and also literally keeps a lot of weight off my neck: she is FULL. and FLOUNCY. As if snipping off (some of) the strains of heteronormativity has released my inner Leo rising. Am I going to start posting serious selfies soon??? The world can only wait and hope (not) in desperate anticipation.
The paranoid thoughts about “IT’S TOO SHORT” and “YOU HAVE TO GO TO ANOTHER WEDDING IN ALABAMA THIS YEAR WHY CAN’T YOU JUST BE CONVENIENT AND WAIT TO BE GAY UNTIL LATER” are still following me around Brooklyn sidewalks, but they’re getting a lot easier to ignore, like the rats that run this city. I can see so much further now; I can catch glimpses of what other queer shenanigans await me in the wild blue yonder. I can see the credit card debt from an impending tattoo addiction left in my will to my furious sister.
Chopping off my hair will probably feel like a tiny and obvious step in the memoir I write when some publishing executive decides to take a chance on Anna Wintour’s nightmare, but for the me living in the now, it felt like a quantum leap. Not quite the perfect landing place, but a massive jump in the right direction. Maybe my mom was right about that 1998 bowl cut all along.
I’m very grateful to Jessie for helping me cut through some of this comp-het overgrowth with style, and I’ll absolutely be back for the next step. If you’re hoping for a photo of my new cut, STAY IN LINE! Coming soon to an Instagram near you, as soon as I get better at not accidentally turning myself into a pencil.
In the meantime, CLAIRE!
IT’S FRENCH!
An exquisite sensory TikTok for the road and the encouragement to shave your head.
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Bobbily,
Addison
P.S. if you missed last week’s agonizing or have ever wondered how to break a man with salad dressing, give her a gander.