18 Going On 23

I don’t necessarily want to feel or be 18 again. That time in my life was fun and all, but really I like having my own place, not having to worry about homework or my roommate and her WyoTech boyfriend who practically lived with us…in our dorm room. I now have a car, albeit, one with “issues”, but a car none-the-less, nifty things like health insurance that covers all of my “issues,” a steady income, and permission from the government to legally consume alcohol (I occasionally like to have a glass of wine with dinner). I’m no longer a member of the marching band, I’m no longer dating an overly jealous and (as I cringe to admit it) controlling guy.

As I was picking up around the apartment this morning after a successful trip to get my car’s oil changed, still basking in the newness of the grownup world, I realized that there were some events that occurred when I was 18 that I’ve never done since, but would like to do again. I’m not sure there’s any reason why I haven’t repeated these things. A part of me thinks it might have had something to do with the previously mentioned guy; both events which I’m about to discuss happened very early in our relationship and he really didn’t have much say in the matter because I had already made up my mind to what I wanted to do before we had even met. The fact he wasn’t really thrilled about either one probably subconsciously made me decide to not repeat these events.

So what were these events you ask? Well the first, isn’t anything I plan on repeating anytime really soon, but I’m always toying with the thought. Thanksgiving Break of my freshman year of college, with A just barely 16 and J home from college for break as well, the three of us went and got matching tattoos. Small and subtle, we had a Celtic triskele that resembles the symbol for the Druidic Threefold Sister Goddess forever painted on our leg just above the ankle, representing, among other things, the power of three. Our Mom had to come to the shop to give consent so A could get the tattoo, and promptly left before any work began. For the rest of the break my Mom told a good number of people about our new body art, our relatives at Thanksgiving Dinner, other family and friends we ran into when in Sheridan, I’m pretty sure it was still a topic of conversation at Christmas that year as well. My Mom’s pretty damn cool.

Since then I’ve always thought about getting another tattoo, I don’t know of what, and I don’t know where it would go or when I would get one, but the thought always lingers in the back of my mind. I’ve heard from several people that piercings (I won’t go past my ears) and tattoos can become addictive. I can definitely see where they’re coming from.

Secondly, over Christmas break of that same year, I returned home, went to the same hairdresser who had given me my first real haircut, cut it and made it look stylish after two surgeries that required about a quarter of my hair to be completely shaved off (under-layers, thankfully, but still a large amount of hair) and fixed my hair for prom, so she could cut off 11 inches to be donated to Locks of Love. I could have waited until my hair was a bit longer so I could have some length leftover, but I didn’t want to wait another four or five months, so my new haircut was shorter than I had (or have ever had) it. It was a beautiful thing, but being a poor college student, I couldn’t really afford the upkeep, so I just grew it out.

A perk of being almost 23 and not 18? The steady income. The perk of a steady income (among other things)? Being able to afford and maintain a real hairstyle. I realized though, my hair is a fairly decent length as it is, and chopping off that much would just be a waste. After watching a segment on the Today Show (yeah, I watch the Today Show before work, I admit it, okay?) where people donated their hair to Locks of Love, I decided I needed to donate my hair again. I’m crossing my fingers that by the end of this summer I’ll be able to cut off the minimum 10 inches needed for a donation and get back the short cut I wish I would have kept when I was 18.

While I appreciate that the 18 year old version of myself has reminded me of certain aspects of my life I need to reclaim. I like where I’m at; I’m perfectly content with this version of me, even if I have to live with one tattoo and long hair for awhile.

Here's the 18 year old version of me, short haired and tattooed. The boy who didn't like the short hair or the tattoo has been, deservingly, cut out of the picture.