The journey begins on March 5, 2554 (According to the Thai Calendar, in which the year is measured from the death of Buddha) at 7:53 pm
When I was little, I remember giving speeches to enormous enthralled crowds trapped inside my bathroom mirror.
Usually they were acceptance addresses, or snippets of inspirational dialogue, typical witty banter with myself both setting up the serve as well as smashing it out of the ballpark.
And I remember looking at my hair.
The crisp part cutting directly down the middle of my straight blonde shoulder length mane.
And bangs so thick my forehead seemed to be permanently bleached white in contrast to my constantly crispy burnt nose.
And I would run my finger down my part, and flip my hair over a couple of inches to the right.
I could spend hours talking to myself with hair like that.
Because she was the woman I wanted to be.
With hair like that, I was cool.
And no higher aspirations were there in my vast expanse sphere of seven year old-em were there, than to be cool.
It’s amazing the sophistication a simple swoosh can bring about.
Something about that two-inch swoop of over the head hair seemed to transport me light years away from my familiar plane of pigtails and split ends.
That girl, no, woman, knew what it was all about.
She not only knew how to be coy, but she even claimed to know what coy meant, much to my seven year old astonishment.
I had one night booked in a hostel on the southern tip of Phuket, a single green backpack, a crinkled map of Thailand, and just enough underwear to get me through the week.
And I was off.
Pretending not to notice my temper tantrum prone plumbing and low gurgling toilet, I locked the door behind me and relocked it a couple more times out of reassurance, parental advice and just pure habit.
Waiting trapped that solemn thirty seconds of silent transportation down the elevator chute from the fifth floor to the first, I glanced at the dusty metal reflection that seemed to be the incessant victor of a staring contest with myself.
And I couldn’t help but smile at the fingerprint smudged reflection.
Brought back by that very same dust storm of freckles and yellow swoop of so much hair, I realized that woman in the mirror had been me all the while, she was just finally playing the part she’d practiced for so long.