The Before…
Will I look boyish?
Will people make fun of me?
Will the cut suit my face?
These are some of the many thoughts that have held me captive as I’ve debated whether to cut my hair low. Real low. Like Jada Pinkett-Smith in Set it Off, low. [hint: fast forward to 2:10]
In the black community especially, a woman’s hair is a big deal. The longer and straighter her tresses are… the prettier she is considered (although the tides are turning on this archaic notion). As I debated on whether to advance with mission: short do, I shared my thoughts with my friends and family to gain some outside perspective.
It came to no surprise when my parents weren’t to keen on the idea of me shaving off my “nice and thick hair.” It was also not alarming that many of my guy friends begged me not to do it. “You look good with your hair like this Vic, don’t cut it any shorter.“ What was surprising however, was that some of my closest confidants did not initially support my decision.
“Are you kidding me,” I though. My modern and forward thinking friends weren’t as radical as I thought they were wanted? But then I remembered, I can’t please everyone. And if I was going to cut my hair off, I had to do it for myself.
After weighing the pro’s and con’s, the pro’s far outweighed my one con; being that it could turn out completely disastrous if the dome of head was shaped bigger than anticipated.
But I was willing to risk it, so I called and set an appointment.
The During…
I’m sitting on the swivel chair feeling anxious, excited, nervous. I can not wait to see the reveal. Something tells me my new do will be everything I want it to be… flattering, a conversation starter, low maintenance; while simultaneously being everything I don’t want it to be… too mature, controversial, high maintenance. But I vow to take the good with the bad anyway.
Regardless at this point in my thought process half of my hair has formally been introduced to the electric razor that the stylist is holding in his hand, so what choice do I have?
BZZZZZ… he continues with a smooth forward and backward motion.
In anticipation I smile and wait.
The After…
“Alright, you can look in the mirror now!”
I look up. Turn my head towards the left, and then to the right.
“I love it,” I quietly shout. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”
The self-conscious part of me sighed with relief that I was beautiful without hair; the self-centered part of me smiled with relief because I was beautiful even without my hair.
In hindsight it’s becoming more clear that at the core of my desire to cut off my hair was the need to finally be seen as who I really am, unadulterated and without a crutch any pretenses. Going short can be interpreted as going against the grain, anti feminine, and anti beauty.
But the funny thing is… I haven’t felt as feminine and as beautiful as I do now…
(to be continued…)
I’m sitting on my bed watching the flame from my candle dance on my ceiling. My flashlight is right beside me and I’m holding firmly to my only source of communication with the world; a cell phone whose battery life is quickly depleting as I continue writing this post… I’m scared, tired and irritated.
