I cut my hair yesterday.* It was insane. I’d bought clippers at least a month ago from Walmart.
I tried my best to be patient. I took my time and made sure I had enough new hair so that when I cut it, I wouldn’t be completely bald.
(I have a friend who’s been scalp-baringly short before. And gorgeous, to boot. I, on the other hand, just didn’t have the nerve.)
Prior to yesterday’s shenanigans, my last major hair move came in September.
I’d gotten my hair straightened, on a whim. I was bored. And lazy. And, quite frankly, trying to play it safe. (Stupid reasons, I know.)
Mind you, I enjoyed my new look. For about a month. Afterwards, I started to resent a few things.
1. The upkeep. Say what you will about wet-setting or air-drying. At first, I was convinced that the only way I could get my hair satisfactorily strait was if I did hard time under a dryer.
And even after I mellowed and decided to do without the dryer, I wasn’t content. Which brings me to my next point.
2. Straight hair isn’t me. It’s not my natural texture. I rediscovered myself nearly a decade ago. Since then, I’ve found what God gave me incredibly irresistible.
*start the time machine for My Hair Story*
When I was about 24, I was in Toronto. Pretending to study
something I’ve never ever used IT.
My hair was texturized. (For those not in the know, that means I used to put a relaxer in my hair, but not let it get super-straight.) However, I hadn’t had a touch-up in a while. My natural hair was growing in, and the time had come to take care of business.
I decided to get my roots done at a fancy-schmantzy salon. I remember my consultation very well. After admonishing me about the evils of doing one’s hair at home, the stylist made one thing very clear to me.
My hair was damaged. Overprocessed. It had to be cut off before anything else could be done with it.
At first I was terrified. I couldn’t remember a time when I didn’t have hair. Did we really have to go that route?
Yes, Claire. You HAVE TO.
And so I made an appointment. For an overpriced buzz cut.
At first I was nervous about how I would look. I remember, I asked the stylist to leave a little fringe at the front. Some bangs, if you will.
I ended up looking like a plucked chicken, and wound up changing my mind.
By the end of it all I looked…Pretty much like how I appear in the photo below.
It was the first time in who knows how long since I’d had my own unaltered hair to deal with.
I was enthralled.
*steps away from the time machine*
In the intervening years, I’ve fallen into a pattern where I let my hair grow out, then decide to alter it chemically. And then, disgusted, I cut it off again. The cycle seems to be about two years long. As I get older, I realize that the madness must end.
After thinking I wanted dreads, and trying to cultivate them for several months, I changed my mind. One day, very recently, I thought about re-twisting my loose hair–for a temporary ‘do. But I didn’t follow through because I didn’t have any patience.
Plus, I’d left Toronto and returned to my hometown. A place that isn’t as multicultural as the big city. My resolve started to weaken as I thought about blending in.
In hindsight, I realize that I wasn’t meant to blend in.
I did some research and read up on a woman who said she decided to go back to straightening her hair because–among other things–it made her look older.
I could stand to look older, I thought.
(Mind you, when I told myself this, I ignored an important fact. Genetics being what they are, I’m probably going to have this face until I’m 40+.)
Anywho. One day, I took the plunge. I even opted for a (supposedly harmless) relaxer. I did my best to make myself feel less guilty.
And it worked. For a while. I actually enjoyed myself until I started resenting spending an hour under the dryer every week. Not to mention missing what The Good Lord gave me.
Fast forward to yesterday, at Heaven-knows-what in the afternoon. (Or was it the morning? At that point, I’m not kidding when I say there was no time for me. Only “Get this &%# off my head!”) I was fed up. I knew The Day had come. First, I put my hair into four braids. Then, I clipped off the end of said braids–about an inch. I took one look at myself and said “Who do you think you’re kidding?”
I went to the bathroom and hunkered down with my clippers and a pair of scissors…Snip, snip, snip, quickly became chop, chop, chop, and then finally, buzz, buzz, buzzzzzzzzzz.
And there you have it.
Here’s hoping I don’t do this to myself again. Both the chemicals and the cut. I like having big hair. Fortunately, any sadness that I might feel is being held at bay by the following mantra, “It’ll grow back!”
And indeed, it will. 😉
*Just to clarify re length, because I have a couple of different pics of me up on the web: Prior to my cut, my hair was long. Not bouncin’-down-my-back long. More like at-shoulders-but-above-bra-strap long.