still continuing existential.

That night we reached Colorado. We pulled up outside a Ramada Limited and my father went in and came out looking very pleased with himself. 

"Wait 'til we tell Mom I booked us a room at the Ramada!" He crowed as we pulled around back. 

"Limited," I muttered, under my breath. 

It was as limited a motel as I had ever been in. It looked like 1950 and smelled like stale cigarettes. My father wanted very much to believe that it was still a Luxurious Establishment, and so he made a big clamor about going to use the pool and sauna. 

Once he was gone I went to get my guitar. I snuck it up to the room and began to play, softly, not wanting anyone to hear because I only knew three chords and I did not play them very well. 

I played those chords, soft and broken, over and over again, until I felt them begin to pull me together. I did not want to put the guitar down because I knew the moment I did I would begin falling apart again, and I did not have the energy to fall very far tonight. 

My father came back in and I put the guitar away. We went to get dinner at Subway and I ordered a salad with as little as possible on it, because I had been just sitting in the car all day. 

Then when I went to bed I was still hungry and I felt very strange again and there was a word in my head that had not been there before. Perhaps I had heard my father say it once, and now it was there and it kept repeating. 

"Kundalini," the word whispered to itself as I tried to sleep. "Kundalini."

The next morning, even my father was disillusioned by the Ramada Limited's breakfast buffet, so we bought egg sandwiches at Subway and forged ahead. 

We drove up into mountains and down again. We stopped at a rest area where there was snow and my father threw some at me. 

Then, just outside of Boulder, the idea that had been stirring found its voice. 

I was in the midst of reading an Allure magazine article on "beauty breakdowns" and why you should avoid having them, because, unless you're Britney Spears and can afford all sorts of wigs and extensions, you'll probably grow to regret whatever drastic changes you've made. Let's face it, the article argued, we all value external beauty, and we all ultimately want to look our best. 

I kept reading the article over and over, each time with a stronger sense of indignation. The idea was really whirring now. I wanted to hear what it had to say and so I closed the magazine and for the next couple of miles, I listened. Then I turned to my father. 

"When we get home, I think I'm going to shave my head," I told him. 

He was driving and he kept his eyes on the road and kept very still as he thought, carefully, of what to say. 

"Well." He finally said. "That would be... neat."