The New "Do"

I caught a reflection in a mirror this afternoon, and didn't even recognize myself. Who was that in the restroom with me?

And then, I remembered, "Hey dork, that's you!!!"

Fortunately, I am sparing us all any restroom photos that may (or may not) exist. And I will chalk my momentary lapse of identification powers up to exhaustion. The clock is ticking and I only have four days till I hop on a plane and head back to LA. Four days to try to squeeze in everybody and everything I have yet to experience.

So, since "chop off hair" can be crossed off my to-do list, I have to make some tough decisions about what to do with the time I have left.

Today though, I really wanted to go back to the Baha'i House of Worship in Wilmette, IL. I got my first bee sting there when I was only three years old so it seems somehow fitting that the first picture of myself with short hair that I decide to share is in its lovely gardens.

I spent a lot of time there this morning. Praying, thinking about my life and asking God for guidance and protection. Asking for help as far as what comes next for me. I certainly can't figure things completely out on my own -- and if you need proof that that statement is true, ask yourself why a grown woman still uses the word "dork"?

Anyway, I know, this is not a super zoomed-in photo of every kink, twist and spiral in my hair... but that's alright. This picture is me, I still have a camera and, hopefully, there's always tomorrow.

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.

Tomorrow Afternoon at 3:30

Tomorrow afternoon at 3:30, I'll be doing one of the following:

A) Going to see the Dark Knight
B) Flopping around on a "Slip and Slide".
C) Cutting my hair off
D) Going home to Los Angeles

Which one do you think I'm doing?

As much as I'd like to do all four of those things tomorrow afternoon, and buy a winning lottery ticket on top of it all, alas, only ONE of those fabulous choices will actually be going down.

If you guessed "D" -- One more week, folks. One more week and I'll be back in my beloved El-Ay.

If you guessed "A" -- Nope, because I haven't stooped to going by myself yet. I'm waiting for my sister to stop saying, "It looks too "dark" and scary." Um, yeah, because it's called the "Dark Knight", m'dear.

If you guessed "B" -- Nope, that was yesterday. Or rather, I was trying to flop onto the Slip and Slide, but I found I just could not throw my body to the ground like you're supposed to. I'm sorry, but a bit of plastic with some water running on it doesn't scream to me, "Flop onto me, please!"

So that leaves, cough, option "C" on the table.

I still can't believe it myself, but I do indeed have an appointment to get my hair cut off tomorrow. Courage is needed because as I type, I'm sort of I'm in the midst of a freak out over it. I need to relax and try to convince myself that it's just hair. It'll grow back.

How much hair am I getting cut off?

I'm not really sure. But after a year of growing out my relaxed-to-within-an-inch-of-it's-life hair, all the scraggly, bone-straight ends have got to go. My natural hair is like four times thicker and healthier. I also keep getting these really bad tangles where my kinky/curly natural hair meets the straight hair, and I can't stand it anymore.

My hair when it's not curly comes halfway down my back. But my natural hair is maybe only six inches long. Maybe longer. I'm not sure. But who knows what I'll be left with at 4:30 tomorrow.

Wow, this time tomorrow night, for the first time in my entire adult life, I'm going to have short hair.

Short
NAPPY
hair.

Short + Nappy.
Nappy + Short.

It's a combo that our culture teaches black women to hate and despise from the time that we're small. We're taught to run from Short + Nappy, not towards it. What I'm undertaking tomorrow is the beauty equivalent of me trying to throw my body onto a Slip and Slide.

I have no idea what I'm going to look like when I come out of the salon. EEK!

Wondering what brought this decision on?. Well, I've been thinking about cutting the relaxed ends for several months now, and I never summoned up the courage. Plus there is always someone there to say, "Don't cut your hair. You won't look good with short hair." Or folks wanna know what I'm going to do with it after I cut it off. "You're not going to just wear it out in public like that, are you?"

Sigh.

This morning when I decided to get it cut, there was so much going on, so much reminding me that I really have to seize the day. I have to be fearless and just take the plunge. And besides, my sister tells me that if it looks totally crazy, she'll get someone she knows to hook me up with a weave.

Gosh, me plus a weave? Then I'd really be ready for my return to LA!

Wish me luck!