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Long Beautiful Hay-Er

October 5, 2016

A note: I’m not proofreading this because then I’ll chicken out, deal with it.

I did something I have always wanted to do.

It was a Saturday afternoon and hot- asphalt melting hot. My scalp hurt from a perpetual ponytail. My sternum was tight with anxiety and all the other swirling happenings. We came home from the farmer’s market and cyrus and eli were settled on the couch together reading.

I don’t know what I said, but I know there was something, before I grabbed the lavender handled fabric shears from the box on the counter. I carried them the way I always carry scissors- sharp part in my palm, the plastic handles poking out by my thumb and toward the ceiling.

In the bathroom I leaned over the sink to make the first cut. I separated sections of hair haphazardly. I imitated what I’ve watched stylists do for 30 years. It wasn’t all that bad at first, I was careful. Then I started sweating. And I discovered that leaning over the sink did not stop me from getting hair all over my dress. So I started cutting chunks, as much hair at once as I could. I wanted to go until there was nothing left to grab, then I thought about my hair and all the times in my life when I believed it was the only attractive thing about me. I thought about the insistance of people close to me that I “must never cut [my] hair” and “must always be blond”. I’d been coming to this place for years.

The first act of rebellion was a drastic cut at the hands of an “unapproved” stylist. Then it was color. The darker the better, but not so dark as to be ugly. Bangs. I didn’t go so far as the pixie I wanted, but I kept changing, trying to find my(hair)self. (Once I did, my stylist stopped doing private clients, but that’s not particularly relevant, this would have happened anyway.)

Somewhere along the way I just quit. I lagged on my eyebrows and mustache. I wore the same rope sandals every day and never ever got a pedicure. My hair reverted to it’s natural color. The hippy dippy parts of me were stoked. The more central part of me, not so much. Really, this haircut was the final piece of an I’m-shit-and-deserve-nothing-nice-and-should-look-accordingly puzzle.

I stopped cutting.

I felt lighter and it was easier to breathe. I took a shower and reveled in the glory of washing manageable hair. Then I looked in the mirror and saw:


I thought, maybe it’s not so bad.

Then it dried.


Because it was a Saturday afternoon there was no getting an appointment to have it fixed over the following 2 days.

A blessed, wonderful, talented friend offered to come over and fix it when she got back in town Tuesday morning. Perfect!

Except that I was pushing a baby out of my vagina on Tuesday. So.

I’m stuck with my bad decision hair. And I need to put the pieces of myself back together. But something tells me the overhaul is going to involve a lot more than a hair appointment…to be continued.*


*Once I’ve got my shit together.*



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