I have issues. Weird, shallow issues. When I think about the amount of mental energy I have put into my hair -thinking about how long it will take to grow it to whatever length, figuring out how it would look at some shorter length, wondering how my life would be different if it didn’t take three hours to dry – egads, it’s just startling.
I’ve been deliberating cutting it very short lately, and by lately, I mean every couple of months for the last eight years. But I have been considering more seriously these past few weeks, and there are some good, practical reasons: I’m tired of finding hair everywhere and it takes hours to dry. And I like short hair on women – I think it’s cool.
I went so far as to check out some salons this week, and on my way home today, I got kind of depressed about it, and finally identified what it is that has kept me from having really short hair all these years (other than my nose). It’s guilt. I can’t put my finger on exactly why the prospect of having short hair brings guilt along with it. It is, after all, just strands of protein and dead cells sticking out of my head. Who cares what size they are? I guess it’s the stuff deep in the collective unconscious: hair as a symbol of youth, fertility, and femininity, all stacked up against the fact that my hair is weird and it’s always been a source of ambivalence for me. I get compliments on it all the time because it is unusual, yet it used to be a subject of taunting and ostracizing from the other kids. It’s beautiful (sometimes), but impractically fragile. It is lovely, but it is a burden. In some ways I feel like a failure because I don’t have a girly enough mindset to make it look as good as it could.
It took me about six months to decide to divorce. I’ve been struggling with the idea of going really short for years. (And hair grows back. If I had done this eight years ago and hated it, my hair would be down to my waist by now.) I was feeling really brave a couple of days ago, but now I just get depressed when I look in the mirror. It’s like thinking about divorcing my hair.
Maybe this could be a great exercise in non-attachment. I don’t know. High class worries.
I LOVED my short hair. With a capital L. It was easy. It was chic (sheek?) and it was trendy.
But alas, I, too, had the guilt that you are feeling. Long hair = femininity. Fertility. All that stuff.
But I now love my long hair too. I hate the gobs of it I find in the bathroom, and in my car, and in my office, but I love it long too.
Yes, a high class worry indeed.
Can’t wait to see you on Saturday. Hopefully with really short hair.
Un fait accompli. I still haven’t quite figured out what to do with it, so you’ll see it in sort of “proto-style.” But so far, so good!