Eventually my hair grew in. As a child I had a shock of white hair, resembling that of an albino. In early pictures my hair was often unkempt, sticking out wildly in any number of directions. Mom was crazy about a hairstyle known as a "pixie cut" and swore that was the finest look for me, ever. This was the hairstyle she resorted to when it came time to tame her little girl's icy mane.
Looking back now at the hairstyles that were my mother's patio inventions, I have to laugh. When I finally reached an age where I was allowed to be master of my own hair destiny, I let it grow. Thick and straight as a poker, my hair either hung down my back, was bound in single or double ponytails, or was woven into Indian braids. During my flower child days, a string of leather or colorful yarn was twisted through those braids.
Yet mom still preferred short hair. "You looked so cute in that pixie cut," she would reminisce. No way, mom.
A few times I relented and cut my hair. Mom raved; I felt ridiculous, naked, exposed.
Like most women I attempted an occasional perm; most made my hair look like a science experiment gone horribly wrong. I have vowed to never again do such a thing.
Over the past two decades I have alternated between long and short hair, letting it grow until the weight and thickness becomes nearly oppressive. Then it's time for a trip to the salon where I boldly pronounce: "Chop it off!" Not surprisingly, I wake up the next morning barely able to recognize the image in the mirror. Each time I have spent countless months growing out layers--in between planned hair trimming sessions--all in an effort to regain the same amount of hair I had whimsically paid someone to remove from my head.
What is it with women and their hair? All I know is that somewhere along the way, the mop on my head had been transformed into this tomboy's feminine touchstone, my only source of attractiveness, my one saving grace. To this day when I look in the mirror, I rarely look at much else beyond my hair. From my perspective, the rest is not worth more than a passing glance.
Increasingly the forces of middle age have come to dominate my life. Last week I could no longer tolerate the combination of summer heat and the heaviness of my hair, waking up in the middle of the night with the nape of my neck bathed in sweat. So I was off to the salon where I informed the stylist with unwavering confidence, "I need to lose this mop!"
She cut my hair exactly as I requested. During the process I could feel the wet, weighted whisps dropping from my head, could feel myself becoming cooler. At the finale I ran fingers through my hair; they were quickly released to the air, nothing left to hold onto. "Perfect!" I exclaimed.
The next day in front of the mirror I was overcome with remorse, nearly in tears, mourning the loss of my one saving grace.
It's silly, really. My new hairstyle is not bad at all. It has just been a long time since my hair was this short.
Even now I can almost hear mom: "I love it! You know, it's short enough that you should have gone ahead and asked for a pixie cut....."
No way, mom. Starting today I'm growing it out. Again.
Ah, yes....a month after my high school pictures were taken an aunt convinced me to get that heavy mop of hair chopped into layers. Not quite a "pixie cut" but the weightlessness and the curls were just as shocking after ironing the long, heavy locks straight for years. Years later some other lady convinced me that "mature women" shouldn't wear their hair long because it ages them. I was so glad when I finally got old enough to let my hair decide what it wants to do and not to worry what anybody else thinks. Your Mom would be proud of you, no matter how you decide to wear your hair. But I can just hear her too!
ReplyDelete