Baby Soap

My toes were pruned from being in the water for too long. The bubles had become nothing more than whisps of white over the water, licking the the exposed parts of my body. They covered none of my imperfections, just slightly mask them.

Taking a deep breath and plugging my nose, I sunk my head below the water line. I did some of my best thinking underwater. I opened my eyes. It was like trying to see through saran wrap. My vision was blurred, but I could feel my hair branch out and float in the water. I looked up and counted the bubbles remaining on the surface. I think there were four.

Ideas about life and death penetrated my mind. Questions about why nothing is ever perfect. Wondering when things would get better the way you always told me they would. I was able to appreciate the promise you made me, but I was jealous of your content.

I lowered my elbows to the bottom of the tub and brought my head above the water. I held still for a moment and appreciated the solitude I found from the water and my Johnson's bedtime baby bath soap. It smelt like lavender. I decided to make lavender my favorite smell.

I sat up so my upper half was vulnerable to the cold air. I left the damn window open again. I stretched over to grab my razor and shaving cream. I sprayed the pink foam onto my leg and started doing my thing. Baths remind me of you. They remind me of the friendship we had. It was the closest one I had since L left. You were just like her. Your brown curly hair and freckles that kissed your nose. Your oversized brown eyes. Your fears and your hopes. Your sentiment. The way your promises began to sound like forever, and slowly dwindled to an empty, "we'll see."

That's when I cut my leg. The thought of deceived friendships always made my hands unsteady. I ran my palms over my smooth skin to make sure I didn't miss a spot. When I finished I slid my leg back into the warm water. I watched the blood dissolve into a cloud of red until it slowly vanish. I moved onto the next leg.

I ran the razor up my leg as I thought about the way you kissed me. How it was soft and polite. How you tucked your hand behind my neck. How you stopped and made me watch the movie I so adamantly chose. I wished I had done today different. I wished I hadn't let the circumstances at home affect my demeanor throughout the day. The pms got to me as regret swelled in my eyes. Stupid. So Stupid.

I stroked my leg once again to make sure I didn't miss a spot. I put down the razor and lowered my body below the warm water line. I rolled onto my stomach and rested my head against the cold porcelain tub. I inhaled a deep lavender scented breath, and exhaled all my rueful thoughts.

Yours until the pigs fly,
Alessondra Marie

I Make Everyone Proud But You

I can't sleep. Your repentant words echo throughout my head. 
"I've created something selfish and spoiled, something that I now regret." 

I'll be getting ready for a long day come the early morning rays of sunshine. I'll turn on my Christmas lights, open my blinds, feed my cat, make my bed, brush my teeth, pull my hair into a bun, get into my freezing cold car and leave for school. As I do my morning tasks, your words will haunt me. They will chase after my brain and remind me of everything I'm not. The problem is that you won't remember. You never remember.  Many hours after I leave, you will wake up from your sleep. You'll roll out of bed, take out your night guard, go pee and turn on the coffee. You'll mosey your way back to your bedroom and lay on your mattress. Maybe you'll think about our fight from tonight. Maybe it'll cross your mind that there was no end result. You taught me to never go to bed angry or upset with another living being. But here I am, laying in bed, waiting on you as you're probably waiting on me. 

I'm sorry for yelling. I'm sorry for being disrespectful. I'm sorry for being lazy. I'm sorry for being selfish. I'm sorry for disappointing you. I'm sorry for not being what you expected. I'm sorry for not being what you wanted. I'm sorry for becoming something you regret. I'm sorry for not being enough. 
It's never enough. 

"It's okay that you are the way you are though, it's my fault."

You can blame yourself for me turning out this way. That's fine. Blame yourself. Beat yourself up for the terrible human I've become. The bottom line isn't whose fault it is that I turned out this way, it's the fact that I've become something you're ashamed of. And that isn't anyone's fault but mine. It is me that is disappointing. It is me that is the regret. It is me that is selfish. It is me that is self seeking. It is me. It's me. Despite me being my own person, you seem to believe I've become a fuck-up because of you. If that's what you want to walk in, then by all means. Do it. 

Because I couldn't have possibly turned out to be this way because of my own thoughts, actions, desires, wants and needs. It couldn't possibly have to do with me continually overworking myself because I try to be enough for you and everyone else on this God forsaken planet, but never measure up to what I should. It definitely isn't the fact that I'm a candle that's been burnt from both ends. It is absolutely, 100%, undoubtedly because I want to make your life as miserable as possible. 

Yes. That must be it. 

But you don't have to be disappointed in me, hate me, or regret me. I already do all of that enough for the both of us. So stop wasting your time and realize that these not-so-sober arguments get us no where but deeper into this self hatred I'm already wallowing in. 

Yours until the goddamn pigs fly, 
Alessondra Marie

1 Corinthians 13:4-7

I frequently listen to the shitty recordings of your songs. The guitar is well balanced. But your voice floods only my right ear. Your songs get stuck in my head all the time. N1 still makes my heart flutter. Not in the same way, just an endearing, "I miss this" kind of way. I miss you. I miss the way you understood me. I miss your constructive honesty. The way you'd hold me accountable. The way it would make me furious. The way you'd nearly sing me to sleep on iChat. The way I'd click on the end button because I didn't want you to watch me sleep. The way you begged for me to just be my honest self. I often find myself asking if what we had was real. We were so young, but does that really discredit the sincerity of what we felt? Does it abolish the feelings I couldn't explain? 

But I'm older now. I know it was unreasonable for me to expect you to walk through my bedroom door when I was home alone and afraid of the groans and whispers the house walls made. I know it was unreasonable for me to hope you would surprise me by coming home a day earlier than you told me you were going to. I know it was unreasonable to expect you to say the exact right thing at that exact moment. You taught me that the right thing wasn't always nice. Nor was it usually what I wanted to hear. But you were capable of that heartfelt honesty. 

You came into my life at a pivotal moment. It was an essential time in my adolescence and my walk with Christ. Meeting you swayed the decisions I made regarding school and friends. I was so alone. I was surrounded by people that I knew, but I didn't know any of them. No one was interested in the things I was learning. No one was concerned with the crosses I bore. You were an instrumental piece to my growing pains. 

Now I know that it's okay to wear my heart on my sleeve. I'm allowed to have feelings. And although sometimes they're going to be rejected, it's far more important to let them be known than allow them to be a mystery. You taught me that taking the risk is sometimes the most significant action in a relationship. If I don't, then there won't be a relationship. I've realized that I can't keep everything locked up. Most of the time, it'll be more beneficial for me to tell someone, anyone, than no one at all. 

I loved you as much as a confused fifteen year old girl is capable of loving a seventeen year old young man. Unfortunately for our relationship, I have since surpassed my fifteen year old capabilities. But God has a reason for everything. He gave me you so I could learn how to love someone to my fullest potential. 

Although I am entitled to my fantasies, I'm not allowed to literally expect them from a man, and get upset when it doesn't happen. I no longer have these disillusions of what could be. I realize what is and I'm content with that. I'm easily satisfied. 

And I owe that to you. 

Yours until the pigs fly,
Alessondra Marie

Lessons Learned

This is me learning a lesson. 

Trust no one,
feel nothing, 
do not invest, 
and never be like that. 

Yours until the pigs fly,
Alessondra Marie

Gungor

I play my piano completely exposed. I allow my towel to fall onto the bench while I touch each key softly with my fingertips, just hard enough to formulate a G major. I work the progression from G to A to D until my voice grows tired. Each note touches my naked skin; becomes absorbed into my open pores and resonates throughout my bare body. My hair falls into wet curls partially over my shoulder. I feel the cool droplets descending onto the small of my back.
All this pain,
I wonder if I'll ever find my way.
I wonder if my life could really change at all. 

I press my foot down onto the sustain pedal as I push down on the last chord. The notes carry themselves out as I turn my head to look at my reflection. I see the silhouette of each vertebrae poking through my back. I see the way my 12 ribs say hello. I see my collar bone, I see my tiny wrists. But I also see the fat rolls on the front of my stomach. I see the stretch marks on my thighs and the bare cellulite kissing my piano bench. It's never good enough for me. Is it good enough for you?
You make beautiful things...
You make beautiful things out of the dust. 

Images swarm my head. They're like cartoons, teasing the fears in my brain; wondering what I'm trying to make of myself and asking if this is worth it. Telling me that if I give up, it'll make me a coward. 
All around,
Hope is springing up from this old ground.
Out of chaos life is being found in You.

Yours until the pigs fly,
Alessondra Marie

Cold Association

There's a feeling I associate with winter. The feeling always comes when things are going wonderful, but on the brink of being awful. It's almost more bitter than it is sweet.
"What the hell am I doing?"

It's the way the cold air kisses my exposed cheeks. It's the way my lungs feel when they became icy. It's the way the anxiety of what is to happen bubbles in my chest.
"What the hell am I doing?"

I remember feeling homesick and desperate to find something familiar. I looked up to the steadfast sky, but even that was a stranger. I searched for the bears, the hunter, the princess and queen. But they weren't there. I said out loud, "Even the stars are different here." No one responded to me. No one even glanced my way as my scared, hot breath fogged the air in front of me. My nose started to run as my eyes swelled with tears, "I'm cold. I'm going inside." The cold, my sweet alibi.
"What the hell am I doing?"

You turned up the music as I sat in your car. You told me to drop the blanket and get out. We're going to dance. I don't dance. But I grabbed your free hand as you gently put the other on the small of my back. I rested my head against your chest and heard your heart beating. I gazed past your car, past the Livermore hills, past even the clouds. The stars twinkled bright as I asked them,
"What the hell am I doing?"

I ran out of my house and to my car, holding on to my purse and hood as if my life depended on it. I felt my messy ponytail thump, thump, thump against my neck. The buckets of water pouring from heaven and the broken street lights made it seem impossible to drive half an hour to school. Terrified, I put my hands on the steering wheel and pressed on the gas peddle. Not nearly ready to go I said to myself,
"What the hell am I doing?"

Everything starts with I and ends with me. It's time to grow up, and deny the definite theme echoed throughout my life.
"What the hell am I doing?"

Yours until the pigs fly,
Alessondra Marie

Creep.

Sometimes I just want to yell, "fuck off." 
Just fuck you and fuck off.
I don't really want to say it to anyone specific. I just want to cry it to the wind and let the sound waves impact the first soul it finds. I'm not angry at you. I'm angry with myself. 
All the time.

I don't care if it hurts,

I want to have control,

I want a perfect body,

I want a perfect soul...

I just want him to call me pretty. I want him to see me. I want him to see my dimpled thighs. I want him to see where the sun has kissed my skin and where it has not. I want him to see my split ends and my overgrown roots. I want him to see the stretch-marks, the scars, the blemishes.
Just see my imperfections. Call me pretty in spite of them.
I dare you.

But I'm a creep, I'm a weirdo
What the hell am I doing here?
I don't belong here...

I don't belong here. 

A larger part of me wants to be shunned. I know I deserve it. I deserve to be punished. I torture innocent people. I walk all over their hearts. I am a bully. 

"Who is it you want to be?" 
"I want to be sweet and thoughtful. I want to be courageous and confident. I don't want to fight with people. I want to be easy." 
"Okay, so be that. Problem solved. :)"

But it's so hard to be that when I've been this for the past 17 years.
Angry. Bitter. Mean. Cowardly. Selfish. Ugly. 
Fuck you. 

Yours until the pigs fly,
Alessondra Marie  

Redemption '08

I remember earnestly exposing my scars for the first time. I was merely 13 years old, naive with illusions of sincere love. We sat in a blank room filled with instruments. His music thickened the air; each note enticed me further into our young infatuation.

After each song we would have sober confessions. I openly admitted my most troubling vice. He asked if he could see the flesh proof of my self hatred. Without hesitation I rolled up my sleeve and stretched my arm out toward his open hands. My palm faced the ceiling as my cheeks grew rosy with shame.

He removed one hand from my arm and touched my cheek, forcing me to gaze at those metallic grey eyes. Without breaking eye contact he put two fingers onto the two inch scab. His eyes swelled with tears as he said, "It breaks my heart that you feel such intense pain that you're driven to hurt yourself like this."

He had such a deep sense of compassion towards me and it dwelled in him for no reason other than the Holy Spirit inside his heart.

He was the vessel God used to hold my arm steady as He ran two fingers across my scars, calling me redeemed.

Yours until the pigs fly,
Alessondra Marie

A Siren's Cry

I'm not sure anyone understands what it feels like to look into the mirror and literally hate the persistently shallow grimace I refer to as my face. I hate my brassy hair that never lays correctly. I hate my scarlet blemishes that stain my forehead. I hate my thick, untamable eyebrows. I hate my shit colored eyes. I hate my random freckles. I hate my hooked shaped nose. I hate my chapped lips. I hate my uneven collar bone. I hate my plump arms. I hate my ever-growing waistline. I hate my dimpled thighs. I hate my round calfs. I hate my stubby toes. I hate that I have to shave every inch of my body just to stay presentable to the general public. I hate that number on the scale. 
I hate my unrelenting hatred for myself. 


Moreover, I'm not sure anyone understands what it's like to keep this dissatisfaction to myself. I constantly find myself desperate to explain this deep revulsion to anyone that is willing to listen. All the while I am terrified of being judged accordingly. The thought of being that girl horrifies me to no end. And so I mention my vices but quickly change my mind. And the subject. 


I'm not sure I know how to look into the mirror in an estimable fashion. There is nothing I want more than to love myself the way I've felt you love me. But it's an incessant battle that will never go away. It's tenacious; nearly stronger than my will. It catches me by surprise and is triggered by nothing more than a glance at my reflection. 


When I was ten I was granted permission to join a club. It was called Merely Mortal, and I was only permitted to become a member if I knew what the words meant. Merely meaning only, simply, or just so. Mortal meaning human; often compared to and falling short to a divine being. Merely Mortal: only, simply and just human. 


As debilitating as my opinion of myself can be, I'm only human. I suppose the beauty of my mortality is that I'm sanctioned to hate myself and the things that I do, but still learn from it. Essentially, it doesn't matter in what regard I hold myself. There's always someone or something out there that looks to me in a higher esteem. I guess that's what keeps a person going, right?


Yours until the pigs fly, 
Alessondra Marie

Genesis 1:27

I imagine God standing in a kitchen, looking silly in an apron. While He gracefully removed all the proper utensils from the cabinets, He hummed a song of love. He took each and every ingredient, measured it to perfection, and added it into the mixing bowl with great care. He spooned the batter into the pan gently and was careful not to spill. He placed it in the oven, and patiently waited for the timer to ding so He could remove His creation and gaze at it with eyes of wonder. 

“You are beautiful.” 

His piece is an acquired taste. One can hardly grow accustomed to it’s crass behavior. It strives for perfection, but always falls short. It wants to be brave and courageous. It seeks approval. It’s motives are unknown to not just it’s peers, but also to itself. It question’s the ingredients God used, and talks to Him with doubts and uncertainties about it’s character. 

God created me. But the magic about it all is that only He knows why He used pecans instead of walnuts. 

Yours until the pigs fly, 

Alessondra Marie

Excuses

I haven't been here in a while. I mean, yes, I have been to this specific location quite regularly for a long time. I've sat in my black and white bean-bag chair, decorated with hundreds of circles, making me feel as though I'm sitting on eyeballs. I've stared at this blank page for hours, and I've tried composing something mildly interesting probably a dozen times this week alone. But I haven’t been here. My heart hasn’t been present in my mundane writings. I’ve been perusing it out of habit; writing out of haste. I’ve been acting the way a writer should not. 

But then perhaps, I have an incorrect notion of how a writer should act. Am I lesser of a writer because I feel everything different? Am I wrong for feeling numb or simply angry? Everything feels jumbled up in my head, and the words refuse to arrange themselves properly on paper. The way it should be is a perfect picture in my heart and mind. But the correlation between my invention and the world’s truth is somehow lost in translation. 

There are not enough words in the extensive english language for me to describe the vast amount of things that have occurred in the past few months. There's been death, injury, sickness, and hardship. But there's also been life, growth, revelation and a different kind of wealth. 


I work with three little miracles three times a week. I have the honor and privilege to watch these children grow into their own people. I received bad news yesterday while I was working. Once I got off the phone with my mother, cousin, and boss, I took in a deep breath and looked into the eyes of the lives that just began seventeen months ago. After a whine and a giggle or two, I picked up Katie and she blew me a kiss. I thought to myself, "Out of all the places I could be, I'm so glad I got the news while I was here." I kissed Katie's forehead and took her into the kitchen and moved on with my day. 


There have been certain things I've learned to handle with grace. That being one of them. That's something worth writing about. 

Yours until the pigs fly, 

Alessondra Marie

I cry more for fiction than I do for Real Life

I escape into books. They move me in a way that reality doesn't. They manipulate my feelings and sneak into my thoughts. I launch myself into an intentional state of psychosis. I become attached to these fictional people. I learn their quirks, see their mistakes. Sometimes I'm baffled with their ability to handle situations with calmness and grace. Why I can't be like that? 


Then I remember that as much as I would sometimes love to be a character in a book, I am not. I am a sixteen year old girl that follows a mundane life. My daily struggles are mainly decisions regarding lunch or who to bring to Senior Ball. There is no heroism in real life. There is no climax. There is no magic. There is no struggle to win. 


What makes a great story is the incessant battle to live, and how the hero managed to come out on the other side. Either that, or a tragedy; in which case, the hero does not survive. 


However, I am not faced with a struggle between life and death. I am faced with a struggle relating to my indifference towards life. The boredom that is constantly tugging at my heart relates back to my desire need for adventure. 


I almost feel as if my life isn't my own, and until it is, my mind will thrive in a realm out of reach from the world that my body partakes in.


But the truth is quite the contrary. One day I will live my fairy tale, I will solve the mystery, I will learn to love, I will change a life, I will save a life, I will conquer all of my fears, I will feel something beyond anxiety, I will be larger than life.
I will do and be something grand. 


One day I won't turn to a book to fulfill the need of an adventure. Rather, I will grow weary because of my exciting life, and desire a good read. 


Yours until the pigs fly,
Alessondra Marie 

The Bucket List

• Hike
• Make an alias and disappear for 3 days 
• Give a stranger $100
• Make a recipe
• Make art
• Make love
• Perform
• Stay in the city for 3 days
• Live the night life
• Hot air balloon 
• Throw a tantrum 
• Turn eyes
• Spit like a man
• Horseback riding on the beach
• Cruise 
• Disney world
• Harry Potter Land
• Meet Meg & Dia 
• Just drive
• Steal something
• Attend 33 County Fairs
• Go stargazing 
• Run away
• Rent a flat in London until the lease is up
• Be hypnotized 
• Adopt vegetarianism for a month
• See the sun rise, and the sun set on the same day
• Learn to play piano
• Own a pig
• Fall asleep on the hills
• Have a food fight in my own home
• Just say 'yes'
• Plant a tree in memory of someone (something)
• 3 Country festivals
• Hold a Koala Bear
• Climb a volcano 
• Disrupt rich people 
• Pretend to be a superhero 
• Skinny dip
• Milk a cow
• Visit South America
• Sleep in a castle ruin
• Write a story
• Write my story
• Take a pottery class
• Go fishing
• Quote movies in serious moments

Inadvertently Reaching You.

I bet you're sitting on your air bed, your computer chair, on the couch, somewhere, with your gorgeous blue eyes glistening in the light, tears staining your face, telling yourself life is unfair and cursing the God that's always done right by you. 


Everything turned black and white the moment you rushed into my house. I closed my eyes and time stopped and I asked God what was happening. I begged Him to make it all stop. It broke my heart that I broke yours. When I opened my eyes, I was dumbstruck, because you were still there. Your hands shaky, your eyes heavy, your heart racing. 


I had a moment of wonder when we were sitting, talking, challenging one another. I looked at your sweaty forehead; it was blemished and far from perfect. I saw your long, dark eyelashes, and fought the urge to brush away the loose one. I watched your mouth quiver, turn to stone, look defeated. I looked and saw your undeniable beauty. I saw the person I could never attain. You're not mine. 

You sat there, knowing the battle had been lost, and claimed Shakespeare to be stupid.

To which I looked back and said, "Shakespeare wasn't stupid; he wrote tragedies. He was a genius." 

The only thing I knew to do at that point was to consult God who never audibly answers me. 


You weren't there to see me once you walked away. Don't you think for a single second that I don't care because if you were God and saw from His omniscient view, you'd know that your words destroyed me. I can write how I saw you, but there aren't enough words in the vast english dictionary  to describe how I saw me. 


I know I confided in you. I know I have things to work on. I know I'm not perfect. 
I know you confided in me. I know you have things to work on. I know you're not perfect. 


I promise there is something better for you. 
And I promise it's not me. 


Yours until the pigs fly,
Alessondra Marie

Talks With God and Fortune Cookies

This morning I woke up to a ruckus. My mother came storming in and out of my room for only reasons God knows. She was mumbling something about the dentist. As her tornado continued down the stairs and out to the garage, I lied in bed to let my mind wake up. 

I received the reality of my dream being over, and real life coming back into play. As I did, my heart became heavy with this new day in my hands. I sat up in my bed and rubbed my eyes until they ached. I looked over to the mirror and saw my reflection which made my day that much worse. 

"Don't you see what I see?" A small voice said in my head. 

In disgust with my reflection and knowing this voice all too well, I decided to argue, "I see a girl with bed head and red eyes. I see a girl that gets in people's way. So if that's what you see, then yes. I see what you see." 

A chuckle brightened my heart. Louder this time, the voice explained, "That's not what I see. Look again." 

Afraid of being disappointed of my mirror image, I reluctantly looked up. 

"Don't you see what I see?" He asked me again.

I held my breath while I burned a hole into the mirror with my eyes. I was desperate to see what He saw.

"Don't you see the beauty in you? Don't you see the self depreciation washing off of you? Please tell me you see the fear being afraid of you, and the gossip not wanting to tempt you."  

I looked down to my hands with shame as questions of doubt swarmed my mind. Suddenly, curiosity kissed my heart. When I looked back at my reflection, I saw what he saw. 

In complete awe, and a new ambition to be that person, I leaned over to check what time it was: 8:30 AM. 

I got this fortune last night. I thought I'd be productive in the sense that I'd get something done, not in the sense that I'd find myself. The irony of the situation is that I've been praying for God to change me. I told Him no more than three days ago that I was sick of fearing everything but Him. Because I knew that in actuality, I shouldn't fear anything but Him. 

Yours until the pigs fly,

Alessondra Marie

Unwanted Phrases

Part of our problem is that your music makes me angry. I never told you that. But your music makes me furious. One time I was driving with my Dad. We were discussing our music taste. I told him spitefully with you in mind, "I like anything that has a lot of meaningful lyrics and good music." As soon as I said it, I wished to take it back. That happens to me a lot. Stupid. But I said it and we laughed at the absurdity of the statement; my rash giggles disguised the blush that was staining my cheeks. We rushed onto the freeway as I recovered from my idiocy. I further explained that I mostly prefer M&S or Blind Pilot. Not the angry raps like Eminem. 

I fantasize of being spontaneous with unreasonable ideas. M and I used to be, and maybe that's because he had the 'stang. We were hopeless idiots, driving in the backroads of Livermore, out towards Castro Valley, pit stopping at cemeteries, dancing under the stars to Owl City. I'd be a stubborn little girl each night, begging and pleading that he wouldn't take me home. M would give in, and take me to one more place. He understood my thrive to live a fairytale; to be nomadic and live on edge. He had the means to satisfy this desire, and the ideas to do it. As for us? We don’t have the means, you don’t have the desires, I don’t have the ideas to come anywhere close to being spontaneous. 

I cut my hair to a length you probably will hate. But that's how I cope with just about everything, I cut my hair. I chose not to ask your opinion after I carefully considered the way we discuss things. For instance, if I asked, "Should I cut my hair?" You'd probably reply, "How short?" and I'd say, "I'm not sure; maybe something like this?" and I'd show you another picture of Natalie Portman because I want so much to be as beautiful as her. Not knowing the simple desire of affirmation I seek, you'd probably say, "Yeah that looks good" with your half hearted smile that I knew meant, "I really hate it but I know that's the wrong answer, so I'll just give you this smile and nod my head and say yes." 

But that’s not how I want this conversation to go. You see, I imagine Jack Dawson and Rose DeWitt Bukater laying on my bed in a less contemporary version of my room. I saw Rose, the girl that longed to be saved, and was saved by Jack in every way a person could be saved, ask him the same thing. He'd look at her and say, "I hate it. I hate short hair, Rose, and you know it." With a look of something resembling a mix of frustration and devastation, Rose would quickly reply, "Well, Mr. Dawson, with all due respect, that was rather rude." and then they'd laugh because that's what they did. Jack would sit up and as her giggles continue to fill the room, he'd inch closer and closer to her face, examining nothing but her until her face was too close to see clearly. Her giggles would soon reside. Her breathing would get short, anxious to hear what he'd say next. He'd say quietly into her ear, "Rose, it doesn't matter to me how short your hair is. If you want to cut it, then cut it all off. I'll look at you you all the same, no matter how short or long your hair is. So cut it, Rose. I want you to cut it all off if that's what you want." 

But you're not Jack Dawson and I'm not Rose DeWitt Bukater. 

Yours until the pigs fly,

Alessondra Marie