So about the hair cut… and about it not being that much different from before. Yeah, I get it. But I am totally attached to my long hair (physically, obviously – I mean emotionally), so the idea of having it cut so that it is above my shoulders makes me feel naked.
I wasn’t allowed to have long hair until I was fourteen. I wanted long hair so much until then. Until I was ten, I had a sort of page boy hair cut, and it was slightly annoying because on a hot day, or when I was doing something intricate which meant I needed it out of the way, there wasn’t enough of it to tie it back properly.
When I was ten, my mum made me have it cut really short. I’d convinced myself, even as I watched the hair falling to the floor in the mirror, that I’d somehow be able to fluff it up when I got home and it wouldn’t seem so short. Anyway I got home and looked in the mirror and realised there was nothing I could do. I felt this strange emptiness, like an ache, in my tummy. Maybe sadness. Maybe anger that I felt too guilty, always, to express.
It wasn’t until I was thirteen years old and a bit grumpier, that I got my way with growing my hair. This was good but still, growing my hair was only a consolation when there were so many other things I felt angry about. Not being allowed to have the hair I wanted was part of it. But not being allowed to be the person I wanted to be was the bigger picture. More to the point, no-one was ever interested in the person I was. My mother was more interested in the person she wanted me to be, and that was a person who studied all the time, who didn’t go out, who didn’t do anything, just passively channelled all the things she had ever thought would validate her own self.
Going out, wasting time, enjoying myself – I liked these things. But. I felt guilty. I absorbed guilt into my bloodstream, grew up with it inside me. And I was totally motivated by the desire to receive just the tiniest piece of approval, some kind of attention or affection or hint that I was OK, that I was good enough.
As a result, I was a terrible friend and am surprised that anyone associated with me at all. All I was interested in was proving to myself and others that I was good enough. If it was at the expense of others’ feelings, well, my desire to be loved was stronger. This does not make logical sense. Hurting my friends would not get me love from someone who would not give me love. Call it superstition. Or an under-developed teenage brain. Even as I spent hours in the evenings looking at maths puzzles, the irony of my lack of logic never crossed my mind.
When I was ten (and I was already a terrible friend at ten), as my hair fell to the floor, I wanted to cry.
But now, in the hairdresser, I know that I have to have my hair cut to make it look nice again. Bouncier. Smoother. So I am a little bit excited.
AND! AND I am chatty, too! This is my new self! I have always always been the quiet type in the hairdresser, wanting my own space and time to relax in myself. But now I’m excited to share experiences. We talk about how much we like Amaretto and things you can do with it. My hairdresser tells me all about how she has always wanted to be a hairdresser, and how much she loves her job, and her fiance, and her best friend and her fiance, and how they have a great social life together. How she has a great family. I really enjoy it.
If we didn’t have the bad experiences, we wouldn’t appreciate the good ones. We wouldn’t appreciate the things as simple as having a haircut.
Anyway, hoping you have a good experience today. Tell me about it! However small it is…