My maintenance man is here as I type. Clearing my tresses out of my bathroom sink drain so the water will not pool forcing me to brush my teeth in the kitchen.
I’ve heard this my whole life. Your hair is EVERYWHERE. Gross! You’re shedding. Couldja run a vacuum once in a while? It’s a wonder there’s any left on your head!
Yep. I shed. And yes. There’s still lots on my head.
Shedding. I’ve done a lot of shedding in the past few years. Unlike downsizing or simplifying, which are intentional acts to get rid of stuff, shedding just happens.
So while I’ve simplified by taking bags of books to 1/2 Price Books (Did you know they buy everything KNOWING they can’t sell it all and intentionally repurposing it to prisons and schools who can’t afford good books?), and taking bags of clothes to Goodwill, I’ve shed more than just hair.
I’ve shed regret. Realizing it is useless. It is limiting. It’s loss gives space to lessons learned, ready, set Take 2.
I’ve shed a deep vertical worry line between my eyes. Once the thing you worry about either happens, or doesn’t, you realize the crevice you carry on your face is unnecessary.
I’ve shed trying to make sense of the senseless. And life is far more entertaining now, since I’ve replaced whys with isn’t that somethings?
It’s always embarrassing when the maintenance man takes the mucky-mucked hair and throws it away. But it does seem pretty symbolic of the things we shed.
While they were in our lives they seemed so necessary. But once they are gone, they seem….mucky. Like something you’re happy to throw away.
And in the best case, new, shiny, life-filled things move in to take their place.
So yes. I get it. I shed.
I’m so over it.