Just some straight up honesty, train of thought, not looking for any type of sympathy, just speaking a part of my very vulnerable truth.
Sometimes I feel like I'm alone on an island. Looking at hair through a blurry lens, wishing it was a canvas. Wishing it was a large wall, that I could plan out, and draw on, and paint, and sit in my solitude creating. Sometimes I wonder, if I worked myself in a circle, coming back to this life after so long away, and I gave up the freest part of myself because I was afraid. Because I was "responsible". Because I was on the verge of financial extinction. Sometimes I wonder, if I'm the only "hair artist" who feels this way. If I'm the only one who doesn't love this industry, or this way of life. If I'm being ungrateful. If I'm in the wrong headspace. And then I think I should keep these feelings all to myself, or just write them down and go back to work.
So I do. And I work and work and work until the hair gets better, and more refined, and lighter, and brighter, and ugh. It's like I'm literally bleaching out my creativity. I contemplate never letting these feelings out. But I wouldn't be truthful, and I'm tired of fighting my truth. I find myself going crazy seeing so much hair, doing so much hair, and having conversations about it. I'm tired of trying to change the subject to something deeper, realer, and being met with vacant smiling faces. My heart drops in a strange nostalgic sadness when I see people creating in other ways. It's making me feel uninspired, and anxious as hell. I'm sorry for throwing doubt into the world. I'm sorry for the disconnect. Maybe people are foaming at the mouth for me to leave and implode. But I need to see where else I can go. Just being vulnerable, for now. -G