He ties a turban made of sequined pants around his head, the way he did when he was a little boy trying to be a little girl. Not knowing who he was, not knowing who he is, the only way through was to try things on and out. Puzzled diners at early breakfasts watched as he walked in with a pair of Carter’s pajama pants on his head, light blue legs flowing about his shoulders and in his mind he was tossing some luxurious set of curls like the women on those shampoo commercials.
“Don’t hate me because I’m beautiful… this is my hair in the morning!”
If it was all make-believe, and it most certainly was, did that dispel any of the power he felt? Misguided or unjustified confidence is still, at its heart, confidence – and sometimes more powerful than anything earned from the masses because it had to come from within. He didn’t see this as a boy; he barely registers it as a man. He only knows his worth, and that is enough. Underestimating oneself is just as bedeviling as overestimating oneself. Figuring out who you are only gets more convoluted and difficult the older we get, which is how it should be. At the same time, other things come into more focused relief. The universe isn’t entirely cruel – it offers solace and sustenance for survival when least expected.
Mr. Oud minds his memory, marks the moment, and moves on to another task.
