A Letter to my Younger Self
I am you, in 2013. If you are reading this… you probably won’t believe it, since… well… I wouldn’t have believed it… and like I said… I am you. An older you. A wiser you. And… the reason I’m writing you this letter… a balder you.
I need to stop you from doing something before you begin it. You see that big bush of curly red on the top of your head? Of course you do! Stevie Wonder could see it in the dark. You think it’s magic because it has the power to call forth an infinite number of old ladies to worship its glory. I’m sure even now, as you are attempting to make sense of the letters on this page, you can hear the sounds of walking sticks and posturepedic shoes inching closer and closer to get a good look, and in some cases a large, arthritic handful of your glowing hair of auburn. By now our gorgeous mother has taken you to the salon and said to the hair wizard, “I want THAT color!” quickly followed by, “Evan, put that down!”
I’m writing to tell you it IS magic. A very special magic often misunderstood by adorable, sweet natured youths raised in South Florida (I’m talking about you, us, in case you haven’t learned how to take a hint yet.) This magic, when not respected, can turn on you and leave you in despair. I didn’t respect it… wait… WE didn’t… well, technically you haven’t done it yet, but once you get into about 3rd grade… you’re gonna do it, so listen up! Unless I stop you, we both will be regretting our decision for years to come.
In a few years, after the first few “carrot-tops” and “tomato-heads” turn into what seems like an endless bombardment of attacks on your happiness, you will start to wish with all your might that you didn’t have your mane of red. You are going to pray to any god that will listen, wish on every star you see, and one day you even ask a little person at the Broward Mall to intercede because you thought he was a Keebler Elf. (Don’t feel bad about that one… he was dressed for the Renaissance Fair… it wasn’t your fault.) With every fiber of your being you are going to ask the Universe for what you want. I’m not writing to tell you not to wish it. I’m writing to tell you to… Be More Specific.
The Universe has a tendency to be a little bitch. Oh, it heard your prayers… loud and clear. It saw the tears running down your face as you tried to figure out what the hell a “ginger minge” was. It watched as you practically blinded yourself coloring each strand with a Sharpie. It was waiting patiently to grant you your wish…. WITH CONDITIONS.
Around the time you turn 20 years old, those auburn waves of… your hair, start to turn a subtle shade of brown. Not everywhere, just on your head. Sorry to be the one to tell you, but you actually are a ginger minge… still. Anyhoo, You get all excited that you’re finally getting what you’ve wanted for years, and this in turn makes you pray even harder. Eventually you notice your forehead getting bigger. And bigger. And bigger. Your hair may be turning brown… but it’s also falling out! And you don’t like it!!!!!
So, I beg of you, as a grown-up you from the future… change your prayer. The Universe is listening!!!! Don’t just say, “I do not want to have red hair any more.” All the Universe is going to hear is “I don’t want hair!” This is not true!!!!!!!!! You want hair. You want hair more than is probably healthy for a person to want something so insignificant in relation to other important matters in the world. Instead, say this: “I want a full head of brown hair that never succumbs to male patterned baldness.” I think this will cover our asses and save us many wasted hours, days, weeks, months, and years of unnecessary stress and insecurities. Trust me, there are so many other things you could be doing with all those wasted hours…you’re gonna LOVE the internet.
In other news, that older girl that lives with you that you call ‘sister’… she may drive you crazy sometimes, but she turns out to be one of the most amazing, loyal, loving, and supportive relationships you have throughout your life. So cut her some slack every now and then, and stay off her side of the back seat of the car once in a while.
Don’t show this to anyone… they’ll probably put you in a home for crazy people.
LOVE LOVE LOVE
(yes… we ask people to call us Ven in the future… just go with it.)
P.S. Warn Selena! Yolanda is not her friend!