Pick a Frame

It seems every 6 weeks or so I enter a deep and cavernous riot of thinking that is bound by one question: blonde, or brunette?

It's that simple, and yet such dichotomy has forced hours of bent frustration and quizzical stares into the mirror in the hope that a resolution is secured.

Unfortunately I've yet to make up my mind. And so I am currently settled on the lighter hue as I continue to fumble my way through the shaping of my identity and inherently the shaping of my face in terms of determining who I am.

Who am I? Heaven knows. Truly, heaven only knows; I've come to assume that upon my final ascent I'll eventually be able to look down and with the beauty of hindsight and a great 'ka-rumph' in my brain, I will hopefully be able to work out who I am.

Until then, I'm forging on the in the tableau of pop culture looking for some form of heavy material to hold onto, tug on, or sit on, in the hope that it will be my final definitive stance that declares who I am.

Being a 20 year old female in the current state of pop has recognised a few situations at hand. The regurgitated blonde or brunette question comes to stand for more than just the shade of my hair, but the shade of my being. Being a blonde, it seems, stands for having more fun, a whimsical musicality in my step and a sheer shade of inherent naivety (or so I've been told). A brunetter is darker, inherits elements of broodiness and copes through things with indignant stares and powerful hues of human nature (or so I've been told).

Or, perhaps, is this a whole pile of complete crap and instead a farcicle attempt by the powers that be to determine greater meanings to menial elements in life, all so we buy in, dig deep, own up and spend big on things that indeed have no greater value for us than the next type of copy that 'defines who we are'. (Purely a rhetorical suggestion, for we all now know how being duped is a natural characteristic of a human in the western world these days).

I'm constantly enamoured by the world of fame, celebrity and popularity. Not for the matter that I want to be them, but for the matter of what the 'media' prescribes to such people. It seems a small statement of colour, an image showing smile or restraint, becomes an overbearing marker for the greater person in totality.

It's interesting because we, us mundane movers and makers of the 'normal' world, do exactly the same. The frame we place on people is just as harsh, just as scrutinising and just as trivial as that of the big names. Only our thoughts aren't printed on tabloids or pushed through internet sites. And thank goodness for that.

The idea of the 'frame' is something that intrigues me so much. I believe we are put in frames just as much we put ourselves in them. Conscience choices of the self make for a conscience choice of the frame of self. My choice for blonde hair has fallen among many lines but lately, for the most, older and I believe wisest part has come from a place of laid back honesty: I like being blonde. I have lost the care for what it means to be it, I just like being blonde.

This runs under the same frame of my dressing. Hours of my life have been scored in the mirror in fret for what people may define me as by the state of my ensemble. However this frame of conscience just showed the fear of a person who lived under the value of such thinking that the image of dress could be the only definitive element of an entity.

Now, I get dressed how I believe I, a woman of my age, nature, and character should dress. How I, Eden should put herself together. I get it wrong about 70% of the time but my frame sits right. I can be seen through it.

About a week ago, I lay with my head in a basin as my hairdresser washed the blonde highlighter colour out my hair. Across from me was a great big gray wall, marked only by the few stains of hair colour that had accidentally made their way onto it previously. For a salon that boasts so much about the sprucing of the self, the valour of one's ego and the glory of looking good, I couldn't help but feel like this wall was letting me down. The mild streaks of fallen colour seemed only errant reminders of the forged meaning of beings that were being sprouted in front of the salon mirrors. Where was the great big motivational saying, that inspired the self? For five minutes of warm watered washing, I was in limbo between the putting on of the new and the blowing out of the old. Within the expanse of gray, I was forced with the truth that at the end of it all, blonde or brunette, my name was Eden. I was a 20 year old human being who, despite what shade my hair was, no colour could actually change my being.

There is a verse in the psalms that I enjoy. "My heart is steadfast... my heart is steadfast". It's a saying that boasts a steadiness of heart. It sung out to me because of the very bare nature of it's call. It's not proclaiming glory in an image, it's not inducing jealousy in a sound. It's a truthful declaration in the steadfast nature of heart.

This truth of heart is the frame in which I want to be seen in. Sure, I make an effort to have nice hair, wear nice clothes, choose nice shoes. However the gray imminence of the salon wall showed that despite the fanfare going on around it, you cannot escape that images have shadows and the pop of culture has to burst at some point.

After this epiphany I can only hope that I daily choose this frame to live in. It will be a task repeated every morning, and no doubt, I will choose wrongly at times. But through it all I hope to truly stand upon the proclamation that my heart is steadfast, yes my heart is steadfast.