. . .: Hair. Today. Gone.

Enigma Exposed - Oxymoron defined.

Have you ever felt like you needed to get over yourself? You ever look in the mirror and say to yourself: “Self, do you realize that it really isn’t that serious?” You ever feel like you need to expose yourself a little? Laugh at yourself a little? Be laughed at a little?

You ever wake up and want to stop concealing the insane oddball that resides under the controlled mask you wear everyday? You ever just want to divulge the real you and let the chips fall where they may...all in the name of recognizing, owning, and embracing your own ridiculousness…?

Nah, me neither, but I’m doing it anyway.

Monday, August 3, 2009

Hair. Today. Gone.

Instructions
Play this:

While reading this:
I've been in hiding since April.

As I admitted earlier, circumstances surrounding my health during this past April caused me to feel as if I was losing the very essence of who I was. My body was beginning to fail me, diagnosis of the problem was slow and uncertain, and I was confronted with my own mortal limitations - realizing that my body, this object which I had previously used and abused in whatever fashion that I liked, was no longer mine to control. I was terrified of my mortality, yet not the thought of dying, but instead living or dying on terms that were in no way my own. Scared, incapacitated by my health, and intimately aware of my own humanness, I did what any young woman struggling with the feeling of powerlessness does - I cut my hair.

I suppose I could have kept my dreads. While the doctor was concerned with both the strain that the extra weight would have on my neck post surgery and the possibility that my company's recent MRSA scare could be evident in my naps (though he phrased it with much more tact), I was never explicitly directed to dispence with my locs. Yet when faced with three mandatory hair baths of prescription strength antibacterial solution several hours before my surgery, a little voice in my head reminded me that I had a choice.

I sat in a room surrounded by my most best of friends. My mom, my two sisters, and three friends who have been with me through my best and worst times. I asked the nurse for the scissors. T. volunteered to snip the first loc off. Seven years of growth - each tight ringlet of knotted curls witness to an era of hard won maturity through failure and triumph. My sister warned that I was too emotional to make the decision. T. made eye contact with me and said, "B, if you're ready, I'm ready." I smiled, and shook my head. I closed my eyes and paid close attention to the sound of the two blades crossing each other. When I opened, history laid on my lap. My sister teared up and left the room with one of our friends, both feeling the weight of the impending surgery more now than they had just 60 seconds previously. Before it was all over, my mom joined my conspiracy for control, aiding and abetting with her own pair of sheers. All in all, it took about 20 minutes for me to lose my hair and regain a minuscule but powerful measure of self.

I looked awful, but I felt great.

Thankfully (to my knowledge) no pictures were taken of me while I was in the hospital and The Man is finally finished mourning for the loss of the locs he once ran his fingers through. He says the new look has grown on him. With the help of my two favorite barbers (both of which I fantasize about - don't worry, that blog is coming soon) the look has grown on me too...(even with the bald spots (from the surgery clamps)).

India sings "I am not my hair." I say you are not your hair until you need to be. Let it out, let it loose, let it go; let it help you be whatever you need to be.