Cutting My Hair
My mom hadreally long hair when I was born. It was so dark brown that it shined black inits waves. It must have stuck to her forehead in thick chunks while she spent30 hours in delivery with me.I would wrap her hair around my finger or stroke it like a teddy bear when she rockedme back and forth, singing lullabies. As I grew, I used her hair as a security blanket. It became a problem when I learned to walk,because as she reached down to catch me, I would latch onto her hair instead. I pulledmyself up like the prince trying to reach Rapunzel, finding my footing in mymother’s grimace of pain.
With my mother’smuscle problems, her hair became the one part of her I could touch withoutcausing her pain.I put barrettes in her hair, covering her with multicolored plastic animalsfacing every direction. Mostof the time I saw her long hair surrounding her like dark storm clouds asshe lay in bed, toosick to finish our home schooling classes .I wouldcarefully close the door, take my books and finish the lesson on the floorwhile she slept.
Cutting myhair was an adventure. At 11, I was still short enough to have to stand on mytiptoes to see in the mirror at my grandparent’s brown butterfly bathroom. Withone long snip, the hairs slipped to the carpeted floor and I stooped to pickthem up before anyone saw them. It didn’t matter, because everyone noticed as soon as I rolled backthe door—my bangs were only a half inch long. Cutting my hair was a sense of power. It was my hair, and I had control. Itwould grow back, and there was always the tingling sensation that one time Iwould cut it and the reflection that grinned back at me would look just likethose girls in the magazine.
Cutting myhair was a small release of rebellion. Long hair was pure, fluid, graceful, andreligious. When I picked up scissors I was letting legalism fall in circles around me, some stillsticking to the back of my neck and telling me to take another shower to stopthe itching. Cutting my hair was letting go. It made me feel lighter, like Iwas leaving a responsibility in the dustpan for the trash man to take away. Cuttingmy hair was a gift. Donating my hair toLocks of Love made me feel like I was transforming an object of selfish beautyinto eternal glory. Growing and cuttingbecame a cycle, a habit, and a transformation.
One time I could not cut my hair. “Lice,” Shesaid. She could not cut my hair because I had lice. Every head jerked up fromtheir magazines to look at me. Me, the girl with lice. I could not tell themhow I worked at an alternative school. I could not explain that I held andcradled every little child in my arms because I knew they did not receive thatlove at home. I could not redeem myself and say how I had looked down to seeblack things moving around in one of those precious blond heads and refused tolet go. I could only pick up my keys from the sleek, shiny counter, and walkhome.
Cutting my hair was more than just a hairstyle decision. It wasone more thing that made me stick out. It didn’t help that I was white, withskin that rejected any trace of melanin. It didn’t help that I liked boy’sflip-flops instead of girl’s sandals. It didn’t help that my basketball shortsand tees had “I am an American” written all over them. Then there was my short haircut. It made sense tome—spending a summer in a tropical country. Culture does not follow commonsense. I woke up drowsy from layovers and missed flights to find many eyesstaring at me. Eyes that belonged to girls with bronze skin, revealing tank tops,and high heels. Girls who tossed their long hair and walked away before I couldsee their condemnation. My hair was not long enough to hide behind.
The assignment was to write about my life using insidents involving hair. interesting.
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