evidently my older sisters fought my mom a lot when it came to brushing their hair. too much work. too many tangles. too many tears. i'm guessing here because i was too young to remember at that point, but it must have been something pretty dramatic to give my mom the resolve to maintain my untidy and unfeminine shorn cut that followed me around through early grade school.
what i do remember clearly are all the attempts at reasoning with her, all the promises to brush my own hair, swearing myself to silence no matter what the effort was to hold in the pain of grooming – anything to keep it longer than boy-short and awkward. i remember the injustice of it, of my lack of say in what happened to my own body. i remember the disappointment in yet another hair cut and the envy i harbored for courtney-from-kindergarten's chin length hair curling in gently toward her face. i knew her hair would have been an acceptable compromise between the tangle-free length my mother insisted and my desire to look like a girl if only i could get my mother to understand.
somehow even then, i felt like my hair was tied to being a girl or perceived as a girl {i very well may have been called a boy once or twice in that 0-6 range and certainly remember a friend's younger sister being called a boy and my well of shame in empathy for her}. even then, i felt lacking in femininity despite not even knowing the word.
as soon as i was allowed – about 3rd grade or so – i kept it long. shoulder length slowly became even longer – something to pin up. braid. ponytail. brush long down my body. it was always everywhere, but i embraced its imperfect disorder and loved the messy bun of hair achieved with one rubber band and a practiced set of twists and turns that was the perfect unity of balance and disorder.
the first time i cut it shorter {chin length} was in my best friend's kitchen toward the middle of high school. the request was shoulder length. she was wielding the scissors. i was there, emboldened by her daring hair colors and cuts: bright pink one day, the next it might be platinum or just as easily raven. she was bold and beautiful and i wanted to own some of that daring, but only to a point. unfortunately that point got crossed as one uneven side led to another, and suddenly the hair is up above my shoulders and that's long after i had begun crying from the first snip. luckily she was able to get things relatively straight before it passed my chin. for several years after that incident, i kept it the longest it's ever been {more than halfway down my back}.
wanting to be bold and being bold are two totally different things.
i'm not sure exactly where the idea came to chop off my hair this time around. perhaps it was as simple as needing a new haircut. perhaps the motivation to return to my normal hair color was a factor. i think seeing both anne hathaway and charlize theron {particularly the latter, a tall beauty as she is} helped i'm sure, and about a month ago, for the very first time in my life, i seriously considered taking the blade to my hair and hacking it off for real. as in: above my chin. as in: a bob cut. as in: boy-length hair.
i did some research, pinned some images on my underused
pinterest board, found a replacement hairstylist after my last one moved away, screwed up my courage, and then almost backed out.
wanting to be bold and being bold are two totally different things.
but somehow i found myself in a salon chair today, musing on connections and sensory input in a technology driven culture, being grilled on some of the details of my personal life {i adore my new stylist for many reasons}, and watching a razor seemingly haphazardly take off all of the dyed bits and about 90% of my length, at least in back.
it was a scary process as relaxed and entertained as i was. looking at myself in the mirror while my wet hair is plastered to my face is one of the least flattering views of myself ever. so to have to sift through that bulbous view of my cheeks as i curiously peered back at what is emerging...it was a hard hour in the chair. down to the last minutes. even after everything was done and the hair was given life again through some pomade and hair dryer. i still wasn't sure.
and as i left the salon, self-consciously running my hands through the absence on my right side particularly {she left a little length on my left}, i still couldn't quite make of it who i am underneath. one part the shy elementary school girl still wanting the sixth grade boy to notice her. one part the stubborn girl just wanting to look like a girl. and one part the woman i am, excited by a change, conscious of sloughing off the past year's worth of growth {physical and emotional}, and relieved at letting go of an 8 year dying habit.
but tucked away in some out of the way corner of my brain, i am also aware that i am letting go of something i have long been hiding behind in my own little ways. boldness aside, that is a victory in and of itself. my step is a little firmer. my gaze, stiller.
love more - sharon van etten
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