I Cut My Hair AND I'm Still Alive

My hair is gone.

Or rather, most of my hair is gone. This is, hands down, the shortest my hair has been in my entire, post-toddler life. Actually, I think I may have been born with more hair on my head than what I have now.

Just kidding. It's not that short. I'd take a picture of it but I'm still sort of getting used to it myself and I don't know if I'm ready to share it with the world yet. I'll say unequivocally though, I love it.

The whole process of cutting my hair was so... so something. I guess I could say it was a truly spiritual experience. It was having to let go of the world and all the idle fancies and vain imaginings that the world puts on you. Putting aside all the messages that we get told every day. It was a final step in letting go of the subconscious, you are not fly unless you look like one of those dumb girls on The Hills, mentality.

It wasn't easy though. Yesterday afternoon I arrived at the salon a whole half hour early. But I didn't go in. Nope, I sat in the car wondering:

1) Am I only cutting my hair because I'm having some sort of mid-thirties crisis?
2) Is this what a panic attack feels like?
3) What if I come out looking so crazy that the only alternative is to get a weave?

Fortunately, my sister called and gave me a little talk that consisted of, "You can do it! You can get your (awesomely shaped) behind out of the car and go inside. Don't worry, Eric won't let you walk out of there looking jacked up."

She was right and so I took the plunge, went inside and said, like any normal, non-freaking out person, "My name is Liz and I have a 3:30 appointment to see Eric."

Eric used to occasionally do my hair probably 15 years ago. I say occasionally because even though he's probably hands down one of the best stylists I've come across, I never had any money 15 years ago and wasn't as vigilant about taking care of my hair. My sister also goes to him sometimes and she always walks away from his chair looking fabulous. When I decided on Monday morning (while on the rowing machine at the gym) that I was through with my two textures of hair, I couldn't think of anyone else other than Eric that I'd trust to chop it off.

The minute I saw him, I felt so reassured that it was going to be alright. One, no one with eyebrows that fabulous would ever let me walk away looking jacked up. Two, our families go way back and three, I trust him.

We re-bonded over Depeche Mode fandom and having the same favorite Madonna song, Burnin' Up.


Plus, there's the fact that Eric's not into being in any box, any category, any definition of whatever. I like people like that. I like people who aren't all, "If you cut your hair and go natural you're just trying to be rebellious." I'm just wondering, what the hell am I supposedly rebelling from? This is what freakin' grows out of my head! What the heck is rebellious about saying no to cancer causing chemicals? What the heck is rebellious about natural black hair? Why does my nappy hair have to be a damn political statement?

Anyway, I wish I had more time than I do right now to write about this, and maybe I will at some point, but it's an odd feeling to see years of your life being cut away and falling to the floor around you. I say years because my hair grows pretty slowly so when it's halfway down your back when it's straight, that's definitely quite a few years of accumulation. It just felt so incredibly freeing to let it go. It felt like letting go of the past, letting go of preconceived notions of who I have to be or what anyone else thinks I should be or look like.

This is it, and if you don't like it, well... I'll pray for you. I really will.