volume fifty

chicken or the egg

It started with a ferry ride. A ferry ride to Vancouver Island on the clearest of days, blue skies, calm waters, endless views, sunkissed shoulders from the walk onboard. I was headed there for a weekend of pure joy — the honour of witnessing one of my closest friends and someone I love with all of my heart, my “Dad” marry the love of his life, one of the most beautiful humans — and I was on cloud nine.

But that was happening the next day.

The day I caught the ferry, is the day I want to start with. A day that seemed to last forever for all of the right reasons. A day that started at 5am and ended at 11pm yet flew by despite time standing still. I dropped my bags at the charming inn I would spend the next two nights and made my way to downtown Victoria. The journey took a twenty-minute walk along a country road, with green as far as my eyes could see, to a bus that welcomed me on in a familiar sense, before I realised it was the same bus driver who had dropped me off at the inn about an hour before, returning on the way back to his starting point.

A deep breath. Island life. I was not sure I had ever had the same bus driver in a month on the mainland let alone on the same day. Certainly not that I had noticed, which could also be due to the constant distraction and overwhelm of my senses in the city.

I soon switched buses to a double-decker and took my seat up top. The seats right up to the front windows were a blessing for panoramic views and as motion sickness preventatives. We made our way through winding roads cradled on either side by paddocks and horses and trees and with the adjustment of my eyes, I noticed the snow-capped mountains in the distance. 

I breathe better on the island. My pulse was already running at a calmer rate. My mind was already racing far less. My brain was dreaming up stories and taking in the scenery and eavesdropping on conversations. I had forgotten my headphones yet the everyday need for the distraction of loud music or podcasts or soundscapes to bring me to a non-fidgeting human state wasn’t required there.

Resting my head against the bus window, I let my eyes hover closed and my subconscious slip slightly into dreamland. Peace.

I am going to skip ahead to the part where my lovely friend and I were walking along a road in Victoria. A new-to-me neighbourhood, with excellent places for a sweet treat stop, a nice iced coffee on what finally felt like the first summer day of the year, and trees lining the road on either side. A slow, calm walk as the conversation carried us. I couldn’t remember the last time I allowed myself the pleasure of a slow walk without a sense of urgency taking over. This being our first in real-life meeting, having been brought together in an online community during the pandemimoore, we were curious to get to know each other better. I was so grateful for the inquisitive questions, beneath the surface level, that made me say more than once “wow, thank you for asking that”.

The one that I am hanging on to was the chicken or the egg. The chicken being my short haircut. The egg being my feeling myself. Did cutting off my hair help me embrace my more authentic self, help me step into my own style and have me welcome my desire to dress and behave and be perceived in a certain way on my own terms? Or did, for another reason, this all happen first and then like a domino effect, my hair longed to be chopped to suit finding the real me?

My answer was long-winded as I tried to figure that out. I know that at one point, years ago now, I was in a relationship where I lost myself a little. Not to the fault of that person, but because I became another half vs remaining my whole self. I allowed that to happen and I shrunk, feeling too loud, too bright, too quirky, too alternative, too different (and for the record all of these descriptives make me cringe writing them, as I do not think this at all now, I just feel, as I hope everyone does, as me, yet at the time this is how I viewed it).

I wore less animal print and wore more beige sweaters with collared shirts and skirts of a certain length. I hid my tattoos and cleavage and stomach and legs and spent time growing out my hair and straightening or softly curling it. I wore more subtle makeup. It might have been the only period in my life since I was a teenager that I didn’t own combat boots. I was understood, in my mind, as more femme, as more palatable to my partner and their family. It wasn’t me at all. But maybe that was the scary fact — that it was me alone who decided to shift into the palatable state — it was scary how easily this became me. So easily and without realising that I had done so, until this walk.

who is she? sending you love younger lauren. pictured is my first attempt at short hair being grown out (haha the bun) and wearing clothes I no longer own

Then time passed. Slowly but surely, with a huge thanks in part to lockdowns and lack of outside influence, something that came years after that relationship ended, I found myself again. The lockdowns meant I was surrounded by, well, no one. That being surrounded by no one saw me forming my own thoughts and opinions on many things. One of which was how I looked. My wardrobe got a huge clear-out, and my thrifting saw me seek a certain aesthetic that called to me on a level that I try my best to stick to whenever I shop now. My inner voice and not the voice of others.

I don’t think I dress remarkably, or that people would turn their heads in the street, but I dress for me. And when I started doing so, the haircut became a natural next step. I was still dressing for others in a way, slowly but surely changing that narrative, but when I cut off my hair I saw myself in the mirror and saw myself for who I was. I see pictures of me with long hair now and see a woman trying to be someone she was not, at least at that time in her life. The domino effect, the chicken or the egg, has continued since.

before

there she is

More tattoos. Wearing sleeveless shirts with pride. Showing off parts of my body that I love. Fun makeup when I want to. Chunky jewellery and vintage handbags that desirably clash with my outfit. Doc Martins. Flares. Sunglasses people have assumed I have purchased to wear to a music festival but they are for every day. Body hair.

Listening less to the voice that says “look like this because you should” and more to the voice that asks “is this how you want to look?”

So when the next day I was getting ready for the wedding, salmon jumpsuit on, vintage snakeskin purse, giant sunglasses with gold snakes on them, chunky gold accessories, pink eyeshadow, bowl-cut hair, tattoos proudly protruding from every place they could, boobs and waist and back accentuated — I looked at myself and thought about seeing quite a few people who hadn’t seen me in a long time. People who when they last saw me, saw someone who wore long sleeves to hide her arms and long hair to hide a lot more.

I made myself the main character, and thought about what they would think of me — instead of how lovely it would be to all be together to witness the most beautiful day — and I shaved my armpits.

Since growing them out I have given them trims and styles, the same way I have had other parts of my body hair styled. But this was a full removal. I shaved one and stared at myself and knew, beyond the measure of a doubt, with a huge sad sigh and a heavy heart that comforted me, that this was not for me. What a delightful reassurance to be staring at yourself with one hairy armpit and one bare one, and knowing which one truly makes you feel more confident and sexy.

I had to shave the other, as I can only imagine the only thing worse than shaved pits when I don’t want them is one shaved and one not. Taking the razor to my armpit in the first place, was about being more acceptable amongst the short new hair with an undercut, more tattoos, more “my style” of clothing and more confidence since the last time people saw me. More visibly queer — whatever that means — I am well aware there is no way to look queer but I also know that the more I step into my comfort in my queerness, the less I try and look like I did before then.

As I write this now I painfully feel the stubble coming back. That’s the wonderful thing: this will of course grow back. The discomfort of regrowth to partner with the comfort of my knowing I love every single hair poking back out to allow me to be the me I want to be and to have the body that I desire.

Have you ever backtracked on yourself only for it to solidify your feet in where you want to be? Embracing yourself? Loving the choices you have made for yourself? Being so sure after a questionable act against yourself that you were right all along?

I love you,

Lauren xoxo

Three things I struggled with this week:

• ☎️ A string of heartbreaking news, both for the world, of course, and for my immediate circles. Heartache in my family and in my comedy community. A cycle that doesn’t seem to stop these days, right?

• 🥚 Speaking of chicken and egg — does my high doom scroll time make me miserable, or when I am miserable do I try and escape with doom scrolling?

• 💡 I am not sure if this is a summer thing, but the neighbours across from me have started leaving their outside light on ~all night~ and as someone who is not a fan of black-out curtains, and who also likes the environment, I want them to stop now please and thanks.

Three blessings from this week:

• ⛆ The Calm app updated their platform and I kid you not, I gasped and shed a tear when I saw they now have “car in the rain” as a soundscape. Dear lord this girl is going to be the most at peace you have ever known her to be.

• 🚌 In the city people watch each other run for the bus and just stare as they miss it. I love the places where everyone will yell out or another bus driver will honk their horn so everyone gets where they want to.

• 💐 I was overcome with joy seeing someone I love with all of my heart, marry the love of his life, who is an exceptionally wonderful and cool, kind, beautiful human. My “Dad” got married on the weekend, my old roommate, one of my favourite people. Someone who has consistently been there with me and guided me through a lot by leading by example to take your life and make it yours, to take the reigns when you need to, to be gentle with yourself when needed, to fight when needed, to take action when needed. Someone who has always had a hug to share, a laugh to share, delicious food to share and wisdom to share. Someone who I can always feel good in the presence of and who spreads joy wherever he goes. I cried a lot of happy tears this weekend. What a beautiful day for two beautiful people.

Three goals for the coming week:

• 🛌 Last week I asked for napping tips and one of you very kindly suggested the Calm App nap meditations (I swear I do not work for Calm but at this rate, I should get a commission each time I mention them). I had no idea and my life is changed. They are the perfect length and tone to drift you off and then gently bring you back with bird songs when the twenty-six-ish minutes are up. I am going to nap every day that I can. What a difference it makes to give myself that gentle care, reset and boost.

• 🚪 There are two meetings in my local area that I am yet to visit. My goal is to step out of the comfort of online recovery meetings and step through some doors of real-life ones again. It’s been a hot minute and I deserve to give that time in my schedule as much as I give work, rest and play. It is crucial and the fact that I will get that without the use of a screen at times will be so beneficial to my head.

• 🧘 Pray. The ways I know how.

What I am enjoying this week: 

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Lou is one of the brightest lights I know. Her love of the sky that has become her motto "keep looking up" is only outdone by the way she lights up the room, the page, the group — wherever you may encounter her.

May her words bring you as much joy, courage and delight as they do for me.

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