4 p.m. January 21st. An unassuming, relatively normal Saturday afternoon. The day I finally decided to cut off all my hair.
For the longest time I’ve talked about cutting my hair. No, not a trim, not a couple of inches, but a proper chop.
I would come out of a long shower with freshly washed detangled curls, dripping wet and hanging down my back, the tendrils hugging my towel’s ribbed hem. And each week, without fail, for the past ten months, the thought would take careful, measured steps, sidle and slink, tracing a path from my subconscious to my all important frontal lobe: what if I cut it all off?
Take the shears,
Position them right behind the ears,
So the mass of hair falls without fear —
I'd be free of that secret snare.
Wishing desperately that the Hermione Granger level of frizz would disappear, that my curly hair could collect itself neatly and swing high in the ponytail everyone in my elementary school sported
For most of my childhood I shrank under the gaze of expectation, of conformity, growing small like Alice when she ingested Wonderland’s drink me potion. Wishing desperately that the Hermione Granger level of frizz would disappear, that my curly hair could collect itself neatly and swing high in the ponytail everyone in my elementary school sported — with the few wispy ends continually crossing over the white lines between our red, gray and gold plaid uniform jumper. Swishing back and forth, side to side, every time my third grade class walked in a straight line:
from class,
to lunch,
to recess,
to the library,
and back to class.
Every week when I was little, the shower was an uphill battle. Me versus my hair. My hair versus the eyes of the world. I wriggled, impatient and antsy, under my mom’s gentle hand, trying to comb out the tangles. I didn’t want my hair, I didn’t want the struggle.
Yet, cutting my hair — which I imagined as an act of great rebellion and major change — didn’t happen the way I envisioned it, the way I glorified and fantasized about it.
But I couldn’t leave my hair untouched for the six week healing process, could I?
I’d fractured my right wrist earlier that week (an entire story we simply don’t have the time for) and realized with my dominant hand in a cast, I wouldn’t be able to take care of my hair the way I usually would. My left hand alone was clearly not apt for the mammoth task of detangling my long hair. But I couldn’t leave my hair untouched for the six week healing process, could I?
Truthfully, the first thought that crossed my mind when I got my x-rays back from UVA Radiology was, is this finally the right time to cut my hair?
No, I immediately told myself in the days following my fracture. It was too big a risk. Too sudden a change. I didn’t want to admit to myself that deep down, I was more nervous than I let on. So that fateful Saturday, I desperately tried and failed to detangle my hair with one hand, realizing that even if I was successful, I would have to spend hours every Saturday for the next six weeks doing this.
Frustrated, I cut my hair as short as I could — as short as my hair was when I plagued my parents with the terrible twos.
Yet, as much as I had dreamed about this day, it scared me more than I could have ever imagined. The sharp, scrupulous snips of the specialized scissors resounded in my ears. It was so hauntingly loud, slowly turning my hair into a ghost of the past.
I relished gliding the brush through my conditioned hair, gently undoing the week’s worth of accumulated tangles and knots.
When I had gotten older in high school, I had started to invest more time in caring for my hair. It became a cherished weekly ritual: shampoo, rinse, conditioner, detangle, rinse, and oil raked through with a wide-toothed comb. My hair was healthy, it was curly, it was long. I relished gliding the brush through my conditioned hair, gently undoing the week’s worth of accumulated tangles and knots. When I finished, the warm water slowly seeped from my scalp to my toes, the curls lengthened, flowing behind me — soft as silk at the slightest touch — the envy of any Disney princess.
But, as any of my fellow curly girlies can tell you, each wash day brings a slightly different result from the last time. And, sometimes, when my hair didn’t dry the way I wanted to, if it wasn’t perfect, it would leave me irritated for the rest of the week. I had gone from being ashamed of my hair, to my hair taking charge and defining me.
When I first started to dream about cutting off my hair, I did so because I wanted to radically subvert the idealized feminine stereotype that long, luscious hair equals beauty. I wanted to make a pointed, shocking statement to the world. What followed was the genesis of my peevishly unrelenting and undying thought: Just cut it all off.
But I didn’t need to be free of the world’s expectations, I needed to let go of mine.
I couldn’t bring myself to undo, press control z, on all the work and time I’d given to my hair for the past couple years
Despite longing to cut my hair short for months and months, I never went through with it, waiting and stalling until circumstances forced my hand in January. I couldn’t bring myself to undo, press control z, on all the work and time I’d given to my hair for the past couple years — the hair that I thought had turned me from a girl into a woman. I was sorely mistaken.
My hair isn’t a prerequisite for my femininity, my womanhood.
At the beginning, during those first few days after I cut my hair, I’d catch glimpses of myself in the mirror, and stop myself from gasping softly in surprise. I had eventually come to terms with the fact that my hair and I are not analogous — are not synonymous with each other. This was a good surprise, a happy one, as I smiled back at my reflection. I would find my fingers constantly and systematically swirling the soft, loose curls at the nape of my neck, twirling the newly formed bangs spilling over my eyebrows. Was this even real? Yes, it most certainly is.
Now, when I wash my hair each week, I gleefully run my fingers through my hair, finding freedom in the patterns I trace along my scalp, no need for my comb. The strands of my hair still curl in the same way, erupting with precise grace from my follicles. They’re still bouncy and silky under the lightweight conditioner that I massage gently through my head — the same way my mom used to do for me. I guess it wasn’t such a drastic change, after all.
I revel in my hair. I take pride in my hair.
And then, I sink into the comforting stream of the water erupting from the showerhead, with my musique française blaring in the background, not giving my hair a second thought, not giving it any more power.
