Last night, I took a delicious shower that healed my cold and sinus-irritated body. It was one of those showers that was like a baptism; I went in a dirty, sweaty, sickened soul and came out a brand new-person, with a fresh outlook on the world in addition to the scent of Irish Spring. It could only have been fresher-smelling if I peeled a sliver off the bar with a pocket knife like the dashing man in the commercials popular in the late eighties.
When I got out of the shower, I went about my normal mundane post-shower routine. I am obsessive-compulsive about how I get ready. As I was going through my 12-step program (which isn't really that clever of a metaphor because my getting ready process is truly transformative - ask anyone who's seen me without eyeliner), I took a good look at my hairbrush when it slipped out of my hand and landed on the sink.
I have been using that hairbrush for the past ten years.
I remember exactly when I bought it - I picked it up at the Dollar Tree in Big Stone Gap, Virginia to have to carry in my ballet bag. I danced when I was in College, and took a wonderful ballet class that gave me a ton of energy as well as the motivation to get up at 8:00 a.m. I loved dancing - but hated going to Nineteenth Century British Literature right after looking like I'd been slaving in a sweatshop all night long. So, I put together a little gym bag with basic toiletries and just picked up a few cheap items to sling in there.
The hairbrush was an iridescent purple color and it was from the Conair "Icicles" line -so obsolete by the point I acquired it in fall 2001 that I'm sure anybody who had one when they were cool had already forgotten about them. I paid my $1.05 (with tax) and was happy to have found a cheap vent brush to throw in my bag.
I am still using that darn thing. It hasn't broken, faded, chipped, or lost any of the bristles. It has been with me through college, graduate school, marriage, childbirth, divorce, and three different jobs. I use it every morning and night to brush my hair and it still gets the job done. My hairbrush has outlasted friends, careers, and a husband. It has staying power.
So what does this mean? What is so profound about a teenagey, purple hairbrush? It, in itself, is not meaningful. The fact that it is still usable, and that I have held onto it through the years, is symbolic. I am loyal. I am committed. I do not go looking for replacements when things work for me. As long as something fulfills a purpose in my life and works for me, I can stick with it.
Therefore, I must realize that the things in my life that I have let go (or have let me go) were never worth my effort and care in the first place. If a $1.00 leftover hairbrush picked up from a mass resale retailer has worked for me for almost ten years now, then other things in my life can work, too. It's the simple things that matter, and the things that work out for us that have longevity in our lives. Frost profoundly reminds us that "Nothing gold can stay,"and that both the general state and fate of humanity is that of impermanence. One day, the hairbrush will break or fall apart, most likely. Or, like a Twinkie, it may be one of the few man-made artifacts to survive the Apocalypse. Regardless, it has been here for a decade of my life- longer than any job, any crisis, or any male companion.
As I brushed out my long, tangled hair, sighing with relief that the hot water had loosened up some of my congestion, I thought about that brush. I realized that I could hold onto things for a long time as long as they had purpose in my life. The same principle applies to people - I am not afraid of commitment. I just need to find a man like my hairbrush - there through the good and the bad, through sickness and in health, for richer or for poorer, as long as we both shall live.
If a $1.00 styling tool can hold out that long, then I have a renewed hope that a man can, too. The ones who have left me or that I have left behind weren't working for me or for my life. If they were, they would still be here, regardless of the signs of wear and tear that life had left on any of us. It's not me. I can hold on to something for a long time. Just ask my hairbrush.
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