I combed my hair today. I got dressed in jeans and put on socks and shoes.
Yesterday I did not. I couldn’t. I managed to get out of bed, and I cried a lot.
When I am depressed there is a real temptation to disconnect from my body. My body feels like a weight I am dragging around. I chose to ignore the signals of hunger and thirst, and then because I am still embodied I feel sick.
I wrote in a journal more than a decade ago that I thought the hardest part of the greatest commandment was “the love your neighbor as yourself.” Self love seemed so impossibly hard to come by, but as I have aged I can grasp more its need.
There is a sacred simplicity in the act of combing hair. When I was a hairdresser I suspected that the reason that near strangers would share intimate details with me was that in a world of loneliness, I was one person that they let in—mere fractions of an inch from their face.
So I combed my hair today, not because the heaviness of yesterday is gone, but to love my body, to acknowledge that is from my body that I can love others. I don’t mentally feel warm emotions yet, but I could comb my hair again tomorrow.