IN FAVOUR OF PHASES

because impermanence does not equal insignificance

From the ages of 16 to probably (embarrassingly) 20 or so, I was sporting an extreme side parting. 

EXTREME.

Like, I don’t know at what point a side parting officially becomes a combover but oh boy was I dancing right on that sweeping line; flirting with the edge of reason, balancing precariously somewhere between teenage rebellion and tragic miscalculation.
My dad and brother even created a hand gesture to capture the extreme ridiculousness of it. They’d begin with their arms fully extended, fingers arching and uncoiling in a rhythmic wave, like a caterpillar inching toward a leaf. The slow ripple of palms would move toward my ear, where they’d then dramatically mime-scoop my hair and fling it over my head.
Oh my goddddd-uh, my teenage self would reply, eye rolls abundant with hormones and dramatic flair.

At the time, I genuinely thought it looked amazing. Looking back, it’s like, did I temporarily lose the power of sight during the tail end of my teenage years orrrr what happened there.
It wasn’t just a hairstyle, it was a personality, one that probably warranted it’s own moody soundtrack and a slow-motion montage of me staring pensively out of rain-soaked windows, feeling completely misunderstood.

But that’s the thing about phases. As much as they feel all-consuming in the moment, like you’re stepping into a new identity, it’s only a matter of time before you kick them off in favour of something new.