My hair has not been this short since they week I was born. My hair has long been a part of my identity.
When I was in grade one, my mom gave me a pixie cut. Actually, it didn’t start out as a pixie cut – originally, it was only supposed to be a small trim. But my mom insisted on doing it for me herself, and when it came out unevenly, I was finally rushed to the barbershop, where drastic measures were taken to save some semblance of dignity for a young girl’s first day of school. Later on in the cafeteria, I was called out by a lunch monitor, who said to the eagerly watching children, “This young boy brought a glass bottle to school; this is dangerous, and not permitted.” I remember the sentence just as clearly as the fact that I was mistaken for a young boy. I suppose in my gender-neutral clothing and short hair, I might have looked like a boy. But I remember feeling deeply ashamed, and I never brought glass to school again.
Later on, I became extremely possessive of my hair. It grew from the desperate pixie cut into long, shiny, thick dark strands of hair. It was the sort of hair light bounced off of, and gleamed. People wouldn’t be able to help themselves, and many would stroke my head without asking, as if it were irresistible. I hated this. I eventually forbade anyone from touching my hair. My hair was one thing that I liked about myself, and I didn’t have much.
Eventually, the lustre faded and my hair started growing in coarse, thick strands. I would get frequent neckaches and headaches from having it up. Leaving it down was even worse, some of it would always find its way into my face, or the heaviness of it would weigh me down. It was all over the place.
Through my teen years, what was once straight hair became wavy, and uncontrollable. I shed like a Dalmatian: my hair would find itself in food, on the bathtub floors, kitchen floors, bathroom floors – the floors of any room I occupied. And it was this hair that I carried with me until January 8th, 2016, at the age of 19, after 18 years of having long hair.
I hate it. I can’t wait to have the familiar weight back again. My hair was safety and confidence. It made me feel beautiful on days when I didn’t feel like much. I took the thickness, the volume, the dimension for granted. I convinced myself that it really wasn’t that important, that I could live without hair, and in fact, because of how much thought it occupied, I SHOULD get rid of it. It was something drastic and attention worthy. And let me tell you, although it is sort of a story for another day: I thrive on attention.
I do not feel as beautiful without my hair. I do not have the same confidence I used to have. And I am tired of standing out.
The reasons listed above are so goddamn shallow – the exact emotions I am trying to conquer. I want to let go of the need to look good, the need to impress others, and the habit of basing my own worth off of how I look. I am trying to let go. And live free. But my, my, my, it is hard. Luckily, I have no choice but to be up for the task: for anyone else planning on doing this, it is important that you know that hair, my friends, hair grows slowly.
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