Note: For the privacy of my old friends, names have been changed in this story.
In second grade, you don’t know much about the world. You don’t know who is in office or who you are going to grow up to be. You don’t know what the latest news is or why everyone is obsessed with that celebrity. What you do know are the names of your friends, & you know when they are not speaking to you.
Second grade was already a difficult year. My friend, Maya, had already decided I wasn’t as cool as she thought, & she had moved on to a new girl to hang out with at recess. My crush found out I liked him & had been avoiding me for weeks. And I had spoken out in class about my special ability to see atoms & molecules, only to discover that wasn’t possible & the fuzzy things I saw on the walls were a sight impediment.
But the worst day was when I came to lunch, & my friends refused to talk to me. I didn’t understand what I had done wrong. I implored Avery & Charlotte, the two brunettes across from me, to please speak with me, to tell me how to make things right. But they remained silent as stone. The following day, they didn’t even give me a chance to speak with them. Instead, they sat at another table with Maya & her new clique, & I was left alone.
Hot tears burned my eyes as I gulped down the sob in my throat. I didn’t understand. I thought I had finally made some real friends. I had spent nearly my first three years of elementary school friendless, but Avery had been the girl to reach out to me one lonely day at recess & spark a friendship that I thought would last forever. Charlotte had been introduced to me not long after, & the three of us, I thought, were inseparable. Even when Maya had decided I was no longer worth her time & had abandoned me to hang out with Aria, Avery & Charlotte had remained by my side. But now, I was alone once again, & it felt even worse than before.
Friday evening, I came home from school with tears streaming down my face. I sat at my dining room table & asked my mother what I had done wrong. She said she was confused because Avery & Charlotte had planned to come over to play that afternoon. When their mothers’ cars pulled into the driveway, my mother told me not to talk about what had happened.
“Just play with Avery & Charlotte as if everything is fine,” my mother said. “Maybe they will forget about whatever they were upset about, & you can all be friends again.”
When Avery & Charlotte came inside, they were strangely silent & shifty. I asked if they wanted to go to the playhouse outside, & they agreed quietly. Together, we trudged down the steep hill in my backyard to the bright yellow & purple playhouse. Just before we reached the structure, I heard Avery & Charlotte stop walking. I froze, unsure if they would follow me inside or not. I could hear them whispering amongst themselves, & I felt myself grow cold, wondering if they were making fun of me.
“Tyler,” Avery called.
“Yeah?” I turned & immediately they lunged at me, their hands in the air, large grins on their faces.
“Surprise,” they shouted. I gaped at them, confused.
“What,” I asked.
“Happy birthday,” they exclaimed. I stared, still confused, & then slowly a smile grew across my face.
“You threw me a surprise party,” I asked, bewildered.
“Yeah, come on!” Avery said. The two of them grabbed my hands & dragged me inside to where my mother had decorated the house with banners & balloons.
“We’re sorry we didn’t talk to you this week,” Avery said. “We were so excited! We were worried we would let the surprise slip.”
“We knew your birthday was this weekend, & we wanted to surprise you,” Charlotte said.
In second grade, you don’t know what the latest advances in medicine are, or where you are going to go to college. You also don’t know the proper etiquette for throwing a surprise party. But you do know who your true friends are, & you know just how special it is to have people who want to make you feel loved.
Me during my senior year of high school, my hair freshly cut into a pixie cut.
Note: This piece was written while I was in college & my hair was cut short in a pixie cut. This is the first time I have shared this story.
My fingers absentmindedly stroke through my short pixie cut as I work on a project. I often forget that my hair is short. When I close my eyes and imagine myself, I still have the long, curly locks that I had years ago. But my hair is now thin, straight, and cut close to my scalp.
I tap my fingers restlessly against my keyboard, unable to think of what to type next in my essay. My teeth snag on my inner cheek, a nervous tick I picked up years ago when I was told it was not proper to chew on my hair or nails. In high school, I used to tear at that skin during exams until I tasted blood. I have scars now on both sides of my mouth, just behind my lips.
I try to twirl a lock of my hair, once again forgetting that it is shorter now than it used to be. My hand falls by my side, my fingers itching for something to play with.
I look up and gaze at my reflection in the nearby window. Wide, hazel eyes stare out beneath the dark hair. I should have worn make-up today. With my hair so short and my body so small, I could easily pass for a boy. I should have at least put product in my hair so it didn’t fall flat onto my head.
But, I am alone. Who would I be dressing up for? My reflection doesn’t care what I look like.
Why do I care so much about what my hair looks like?
My mom giving me a perm during my fifth grade year. I had always wanted curly hair.
My first thought is that my mother is a cosmetologist. I grew up where the phrase, “Go do something with your hair,” was as common as, “What is the weather supposed to be like tomorrow?” My life stages were marked by what my hair looked like, starting with the moment I was born with a head full of hair so dark brown it looked black; to my first haircut at two months old; to when my hair turned into a frizzy, curly mess in middle school; to when it started to fall out and became a reflection of my life falling apart. Stories from my childhood are frequented with plots about my hair: The first time my hair was washed as a baby and my mother was confused as to why it kept curling even though she got all of the soap out. The time when my mother came to school for Career Day and cut my hair in front of the class. The time when I cut my long hair into a bob, and my aunt and grandmother pestered me about it until I grew it down my back again. For every event in my life, the question was always, “What are you going to do with your hair?” Too many times I was on my way out of the house, only to be forced into my mother’s salon chair so she could iron my hair.
But when I really think about it, I am not all that unique in caring about what my hair looks like. It seems to be what is on everyone’s mind. Thanks to having a mother who did my hair growing up, I know very little about how to do it myself. Now, it tends to be that however it looks when I wake up is how it looks all day. But friends of mine wake up hours early just to curl or straighten their hair before going to school. People express themselves with their hair choices, either by cutting it in creative fashions, or not cutting it at all. People dye their hair bubblegum pink, electric blue, or midnight black to send a message. Women flood into salons every day to pretend they haven’t aged in years and dye their hair the golden blonde of their youth. In faiths around the world, women cover their hair to show modesty.
Hair is a strong influencer in the stories we hear, too. Strong female characters in books chop off their hair before going into battle. Princesses in Disney movies grow their hair long to attract a prince. Mythological characters use their hair as a weapon. Biblical characters lose their power when their hair is chopped off.
And when we think our hair doesn’t look great, it’s often the first thing we apologize for when we see someone.
“I’m having a bad hair day,” we mumble, as if drawing more attention to what everyone can obviously see will make matters better for us. And bad hair days often just seem to become bad days in general. If our hair isn’t doing well, neither are we.
When someone suddenly drastically changes their hair, it can be a desperate attempt for control during a time of trauma.
Why do we care so much about our hair? Why do we identify with it? What does it represent to us that other physical characteristics seem to lack?
Me in college when I decided to be a red head for a season
The interesting thing about hair is that we don’t just change it to reflect what we are feeling, or rather, what we want the world to perceive we are feeling. Sometimes, our hair changes to reflect what’s really going on inside of us.
For instance, when we hit puberty, our hair often changes texture. As we age, as much as we may try to fight it, our hair grays. It can also turn gray when we are going through a particularly stressful period in our lives. And sometimes, if we get sick, our hair can fall right off of our heads.
I remember the first time it happened. Eyes closed, showering, I felt a clump of it release into my palm. It wound its way around my fingers, clinging desperately to my wet skin. My breath hitched in my throat. My heart pounded in my ears as I stared at my hand in disbelief. I desperately worked at trying to untangle the hairs from my fingers. If I could dispose of the evidence, perhaps it would be as if it never happened.
But it continued to happen again and again. In the shower, as I brushed through my hair, as I cleaned out the drains in the bathroom, as I picked at my clothes, clumps of hair appeared throughout my daily life. I remember the day I ran my fingers through my hair to pull it back into a ponytail, only to freeze in shock. I stared at my reflection in the mirror in horror. There were bald spots along my reflection’s scalp.
The dreams came next. The nightmares that woke me up in a cold sweat at night. It seems silly when I think about it. Of all the important things that were happening in my life, the terrors that frightened me at night were about being bald, as if that was the worst thing that could happen.
Me on the first day of my senior year of high school
But my hair was the last thing that defined my femininity. My body had shrunk to the size of a 12-year-old boy. My skin had paled to the point that the kids at school dubbed me the “walking dead.” I no longer wore cute clothes – I was too cold all the time. Instead, I huddled in sweats that engulfed my small frame. Besides the vain attempt I made in the mornings with a hint of mascara and a swipe of lipstick, my hair was all I had. And I loved my curls. The wildness and spontaneity of them reminded me of a younger, freer me.
It was years before I finally made the cut. I dealt with my hair in a bob for a long while, resisting the urge to pull it back to reveal where my hair had thinned or completely disappeared. But the need to finally do something drastic became too strong.
So, where the obsession with hair started – in my mother’s salon chair – was also where it came to a halt. The last of my locks fell to the floor. I stared at out at myself in her mirror with a smile. I was finally free.
I stare at my reflection in the window, and my lips curve into another small smile. Sure, there are days where the doubts creep in, when I lament over my appearance. But the power to do anything about it has been taken away, and that has given me more peace in my life than when I vainly attempted to make my hair look more presentable. I am always fully me, wherever I go. I show off my bare neck with pride. This is the hair of a girl who fought hard, and is still fighting. This is the hair of a girl who is not going to give up.
So, yes, I still identify with my hair, as we all do. But it no longer represents the me that I am trying to prove to the world that I am. My hair no longer reflects the teenager I was, fighting to be seen, to be heard, to be accepted and loved by her peers. My hair no longer cares what other people think. My hair represents the strength, the perseverance, and the fight I have lived.
My hair reflects the woman I have become, and the woman I hope to one day be.
