About three weeks ago I had my hair cut at a highly recommended salon in NYC. Now, as every woman knows, a bad hair cut fucks you up for weeks and forges the virtues of modesty and patience and hard work rather than the virtue of vanity but this hair cut was good, in fact, so good that when I came home, my husband didn't even notice.

Now mind you, every other man with whom I come into contact on a daily basis immediately noticed, including the Chairman of our company who spent about five minutes admiring its length and discussing various styles that I have sported (not to worry -- he's happily married, I'm sure) rather than drilling me on our daily sales. But not my husband. I chalk it up to the bad lighting in our house. And the dim June sunlight. And his failing eye sight.

But the truly funny part is the Japanese shampoo sample I was given. This shampoo is even referred to in the New York magazine article that recommends the salon as extremely difficult to find, the secret ingredient to every New York woman's hair regimen. So of course I have been hoarding my two samples as if I lived in Cuba but I have to confess, every time I use it, my hair looks dirtier.

Now what type of shampoo is that?

A colleague of mine declared the other day that I am a 'convert.' I'm not sure I've 'converted' to a new belief system (do atheists have a belief system?) as much as I have relinquished my old blind beliefs in absolute truths and ideals but these beliefs and ideals have not been replaced with another set, which would make me an apostate rather than a convert.

On the contrary, I would say that my new 'belief system' allows me to look at almost any situation and understand that there are several different 'truths,' perhaps realities would be a better word, that coexist. These realities might or might not be in direct conflict with each other.

A simple and common example, I have a train buddy who has shared with me that while he madly adores and loves his wife and two-year old daughter, he is deeply unhappy because his wife suffers from depression and they have no sex life. He is conflicted about what to do. So far, he has pretty much suffocated his libido to the greater good and happiness of his family, whom he sincerely loves. But how much longer will he succeed? He cannot imagine another 15 years until his daughter goes to college without passion, not just sex but real genuine intimacy with another woman but he does not want to betray his wife or potentially risk a messy situation where he genuinely desires another woman besides his wife and mother of his child.

I don't know what to advise him. I don't know if in the past I would have thought him a hypocrite or a dog or recommended marriage counseling, support groups and psychotherapy until you find a cure or recoil in nausea from too much information about your spouse,  but today  the most I can do is empathize with the source of his frustration.

In any case, I've decided not to take him up on that offer for lunch next week.

I watched a documentary the other day on the national sport of Burma: chinlone. I am not a sports fan and at first I didn't think I was going to make it through a 'transformational Buddhist sport documentary." My critical mind balked at the idea.

But ten minutes in and I was hooked. Chinlone is a team sport but there are no winners or losers or scores kept; the sole goal of the game is to keep the rattan ball in the air, passing it between players. Teams are judged by the grace and beauty of their moves.

I like this metaphor. I've been thinking a lot about relationships lately and I think the most successful ones are based on an understanding that the goal is not to win, dominate or conquer another but to keep the ball in the air with as much grace as possible for as long as possible.

That's really all you can aspire to, along with the ability to acknowledge when the ball has hit the ground.

I know I've been silent for a while but upon request by two of my surely greatest fans, I am back.

First off, since I am an unapologetic capitalist (have I mentioned that before?), I think Elliot Spitzer way overpaid for his trysts. I mean, Max Mosley paid $5,000 for several hours with five prostitutes plus costumes while Spitzer paid $4,000 for an hour with one. You do the math.

Second, if I meet one more man who tells me that he is 'unhappily married,' I am going to become a lesbian. Either American wives completely lack libido, which I find hard to believe, or the average American man simply cannot get enough. 

Perhaps the truth lies somewhere in between? I'd be curious to know how one defines 'happily married' as well. I assume that most men are 'happily married' until something younger and prettier shows up. And then it is probably not so much a moral issue as a math problem:

one long term marriage + one pissed off wife = bankruptcy

Now if that ain't math, I don't know what is. But it sure as hell isn't a moral question.

But I'm not sure I am ready yet to write about my new reality. Fiction, in many ways, is easier since the writer controls the characters and the plot line. I am not sure if there is a plot anymore. And the characters?

I am beginning to think that people are like electrons, when we converge with other electrons we form a new element but there is no permanence or stability. Like electrons, we are drawn to others, we bond and in bonding we create something bigger, like a drop of water, but water is not stagnant, all water drops eventually evaporate and become steam or condense and become rain drops.

The falling apart and the coming together are like night and day, there is no such thing as an eternal day, perpetual sunshine or pleasure without pain. Many people say there is no God because there is darkness, pain and death but I think that a world without darkness, without death would be the most boring place on earth.

Rather like living with the Brady Bunch for eternity.

It was exhausting but I had no choice. I justified the situation by reminding myself that while I always did well at my jobs by any objective standard, it left me plenty of time to pursue other interests. I published articles, received prestigious grants for film projects, wrote a novel, published a blog, in short, I kept myself entertained and maintained a façade of engagement. I think everybody for whom I have worked recognized my ambition and waited for me to move on. At the first company they were clear - they weren't interested in a whippersnapper upsetting the status quo and told me so to my face. At the next position, I worked under the CEO's ex girlfriend who wasn't going to promote anybody until she made executive vp. And that still hasn't happened. I didn't bang my head against the wall too hard, quickly realizing it would only result in a headache.

And last, but not least, those jobs paid the bills, the lease on the beamer, the rent for the house, food on the table and the clothes on everybody's back. And so, I put one foot in front of the other and caught the train every morning in whichever direction was required.

It was exhausting. It was demoralizing. It took every iota of strength I could muster not to quit or bail but as they say, what doesn't kill you only makes you stronger. But it is over. I did it, rather like walking through a desert and you don't know if you'll make it to the other side before you succumb to dehydration. And now that I can imagine a future that doesn't look as bleak or barren as a lot of my yesterdays, one thing I can tell you, I'm not going back.

Because a dead end is a dead end. No amount of wishful thinking or optimism will change it.