Don't cut your own hair.
You know... as part of a ritual. Like I did.
Before I get started on this whole ritual business and what I did on my b-day, I wanted to share that little tidbit because I just looked in the mirror at my haircut and realized that I... look...
...wrong... just plain wrong.
You know, like some throwback to the 80's. (Like that chick in the photo).
All I'm missing to finish this A-line frizzy hair look are some shoulder pads and a lot of blush. It's the same look I had in my grade 12 photo.
I should have gone to my barber.
(That's right, I go to a barber. At least I did six years ago which was the last time I let someone else cut my hair).
Or better yet, I should have left my hair alone.
But I couldn't help it.
When I got out of the shower earlier that day and realized that my ends were so brittle they had insta-dried, I knew it was time to chop chop chop.
Now I might be feeling like this because my jowls are still swollen from my lingering bronchitis and my eyes are peepholes constantly in the process of expansion but I can't say fer shur.
And to make matters worse, I've never liked the visual effects of my clothes (and face) feeling 'xmas tight' (which always gives me postsantum depression)- but I could be wrong.
All I know is I looked in the mirror and didn't like what I saw.
And it didn't matter how much I fussed with it, or put pins in it, or sprayed it, or pulled it back, it still looked like I butchered it.
I figure once my hair is feeling less stressed over the whole thing, it will spring back to its regular state but for now, I'll just have to live with it.
But perhaps what surprised me the most as I stood there dissatisfied for probably the millionth time in my life, is what a royal waste of time my vanity was causing me. And what an unnecessary amount of psychological discomfort.
After all, the damn stuff is gonna to grow back.
And here I am, talking about rituals and the importance of INTERNAL growth as good for your soul.
Sheesh. I'd call myself a hypocrite except I don't think it counts if you bust yourself early enough in the process of being exactly the opposite of what you've been advocating.
Or does it?
Anyway, whatever.
It did however, bring to mind a thought that left me feeling warm and fuzzy.
According to the Kabbalah, I have an angel called Damabiah who doesn't give a rat's ass what I look like and loves me anyway. He was assigned to me on my birth day.
"Ain't that right 'Bi"?
Check these out:
http://guideangel.com/
http://www.ucm.ca/en/traditionalstudyofangels/how-to-find-your-birth-angels.html
Now, I've never been into angels, though at one time or another I think we all secretly hope those winged men and women in white, (FYI- I hope mine's a guy in white tights who works out all the time), will be there to bail us out when we really need it).
But again, that's not the point.
For those of you who have been reading this blog, you'll know I don't subscribe to any particular religion (or their formal rituals), but I do take bits from different spiritual belief systems and incorporate them as I see fit.
This fits. And I used it on my birthday.
What I like about the first website is how the main page explains how different cultures/religions of the world acknowledge different levels of 'being'.
If not specifically 'spirit beings', then at least something resembling a hierarchy (either within us or without) which either assists us, or helps us aspire to become God-like.
It could be angelic beings, devas, or even our own internal system of chakras whose activation leads us upwards on a path of spiritual ascension.
But chakra activation seems awfully complicated to me.
And I really suck at meditating.
God knows I've tried.
And I'll bet my crystal rosary the Big Guy spent all his time either laughing at me or shaking his head in disbelief at how easily I give up, (or how every time I try, all I can think about are grocery lists, how I should be going to the gym more regularly or how wish I was having sex instead).
Yeah, it's BAD.
But that's okay, cuz I have my own Angel, and nobody can take that away from me.
The thing is, I'm not psssss-ychic. I don't see shit.
Nor do I hear things. Or know things. I have an intuition like everybody else, (which I've frequently ignored and suffered because of it) but that's not the point.
I like to think of angels as valid and real because it makes me happy to do so.
And the fact that the Kabbalah has this down to a science, pleases someone like me to no end.
All I had to do was plug in my D.O.B. and WALLA!!! Angel city!
Suddenly, I had someone (or something - I hear they're adrongynous), that I could put a name to and address when I have a question (or when I'm pissed, or happy or depressed, or need to beg for a favor).
It was perfect.
So I wrote Damabiah a letter on my birthday.
In my next post, I'm going to share a little bit of that letter with you and the simple process that was my b-day ritual (which I promise does not involve any five-pointed stars on my living room floor surrounded by thousands of burning candles or the blood of defenseless animals).
Until next time...
Happy Angel hunting!
