Dear Hair

Seriously.

I don't even have enough words to express how I feel about you. I have written about it before but really, I don't like you. I, in fact, HATE you.

For months now, maybe years, I have wanted to cut you all off and just start again; a hair do over. Then, for some reason inexplicable to me, last Thursday, I got up my courage and I shaved it all off. I went to this little salon down the street from my apartment and for $11 (including tip), I freed myself from my battle with you.

I think the biggest reason I did it is because I no longer want to be bound by fear.  I don't want to be all talk and not live because I am afraid, even of a hair cut.

So I called this shop that advertises haircuts for $7.99. They told me on the phone that they weren't very good at cutting African-American hair, but I didn't flinch. I wanted it to be all over.

I might mention here, that I used to absolutely love going to get my hair done. I loved having someone else wash my hair. I loved being able to feel my scalp again after a relaxer or how shiny it looked after it had been straightened. It made me feel different when I walked out of the door; prettier, brighter, better.

Then, after a particularly poor decision to put blonde highlights in my hair, I went to get it fixed. And there were two wonderful women working on my hair. And they were getting excited as my deranged blonde streaks were replaced with a uniform color. Health and prettiness returned. I couldn't see yet how it looked but because they were so excited, I also got more excited.

They finished and turned the chair to the mirror. I looked at myself for just an instant and quickly looked away. I understood at that point that I wasn't any different when my hair was done. And my love affair with salons ended. I now viewed appointments as necessary to keep my from looking homeless, but not the transforming, special-treatment it was before. The spell had been broken.

Getting my hair done was now a mission. And at this time, that view served me well.

At first, I was determined; walking from my home to the salon. The stylist started with scissors and I felt calm. Until she took out the clippers. I felt a wave of panic and almost asked her to stop, but I had committed myself: no more fear. And then it was all gone.

I came home and fell apart. I CUT YOU ALL OFF! Besides the vanity aspects: Is my head an attractive shape? What can I possibly do with it now? Does this mean I wear big earrings to emphasize that I am a girl? Does this mean I wear smaller earrings to not play into the fact that my hair is as short as a boy's? Do I look too masculine? Too much like a cancer patient? Too much like I am just one more work week away from doing myself in? I was overcome by doubt. Useless doubt really, because there was no going back at that point. It wasn't like I could go back to the shop and ask for my hair and commence Operation Follicle Reattachment.

Then I realized, as I was doing breathing exercises to calm down, that what I was really scared about was how exposed I now was. In my warped way of protecting myself, I have always kept parts of how I really feel hidden. And sometimes, I could hide behind you, too, hair. You could speak for me even if it wasn't the true message of my heart. But with you all gone, I felt like who I was would be out there. Because I have always wanted to be free of you. Free of old school beliefs that long hair is the only way to be pretty. Free of the work and time and pressure to style and have you look nice. Free of all the costs associated with taking care of you.

I recognized that this change of fear on my insides would show up on the outside. Everyone would see. And everyone would comment. I couldn't act like it didn't happen or was nothing because for me, it was something.

To my surprise, people were complimentary of the haircut. And I was surprised by how many women told me they wanted to do the same.I suppose that speaks to the idea that the closer you become to your true self, the happier you are and that reaches other people.

I hadn't meant for the cut to be an emotional statement really. It was more of a challenge to myself to feel the fear but do it anyway. I had grown as a person but I didn't necessarily feel pretty. I didn't feel ugly but I didn't walk out of the salon feeling more feminine or attractive; just more like myself.

I felt freer the next morning when I washed my hair. IN THE MORNING. And then went out in public. It was wonderful. A dollop of shampoo and the fresh spring breeze on my head. It was exactly what I had wanted.

I am learning slowly, what is beautiful to me. Redefining the sort of woman I want to be. I am glad for the learning even though the process is not easy.

So here is me with the cut:

* My hand is there is such a way as to showcase my latest absurd ring.

Thank you, hair, for the teaching.

me