I still find myself waiting, looking towards the door expecting you to just walk in.

A few days ago, I mapped out my destiny. Or, part of it anyway. A (soon to be declared) Philosophy and Religion major with a minor in Sociology. Years ago, I imagined this to be completely different. I was to be a Psychology major, a wonderful intellectual and completely happy. Funny how things turn out.

Don't get me wrong, that does not mean things now are miserable. Almost quite the opposite. I find myself happy in pockets of time that my mind is free to roam all my positive thoughts; my thoughts of changing the world, of becoming an better individual, of being a parent, a lover, a good daughter, sister, cousin...

Slowly, ever so slowly, I am healing and moving on. But, I still find myself waiting, looking towards the door expecting you to just walk in. That who seems to change once in a blue moon, but now... I think, in general, it's love. I wait for love to walk in instead of wandering about the desert, searching for my rain.

It's interesting how much this subject, this sense of consciousness, of self worth, self love... finds itself regurgitated on this blog in different forms.

Average number of hairs on the head: 100,000. Female hair grows more slowly than male hair. Hair covers the whole body, with the exception of soles of feet, palms of hands, mucous membranes, and lips. Next to bone marrow, hair is the fastest growing tissue in the human body. Even on a good hair day, everyone loses at least 40 to 100 strands. The average scalp has 100,000 strands, or just fewer than 1000 per square inch. You must lose over 50% of your scalp hairs before it is apparent to anyone. The lifespan of a human hair is 3 to 7 years in the average.
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I never knew how much hair was valued in my household, until I started talking about cutting it off. It was never a question of if I hated my hair, I didn’t. Before then, it was an everyday part of life. It followed me everywhere, and became a hindrance on everything I wanted to do. A pool never looked more less-inviting then when you had thick, long, African, black hair. It became a menace, taunting me whenever I walked past one. It didn’t even matter that I couldn’t swim! Nothing was more inviting than a cool dip on a blistering hot and humid Midwestern day. It followed me in the rain, screaming at me when it inevitably got wet. The next day, it would look like I stuck my finger in a socket, extremely frizzy and laughing in revenge! I would spend hours rewashing it, blow drying and then trying to wrangle it with a straightner into a monster that turned out less than half presentable.

For as long as I can remember, I was a firm believer that my hair was an extension of my mother. Since I was born, it was always more hers than it ever was mine. She always took pride in it, decorating it with an endless assortment of huge barrettes and outrageous scrunchies. Someone might expect as one gets older, those type of grooming responsibilities become one’s own hassle. That wasn’t how it worked in my family. The ritual of going into my parent’s bedroom, sitting on their bed and waiting for my mother to come and do my hair continued all the way up into my middle school years. Every morning I would wait and wait until she came out of her closet, usually asking me to fasten a bracelet or necklace and talking with my dad about something boring (business). Comb and hair lotion ready in hand, I would wait. And wait. And wait. And wait a little more. Finally, somewhere amongst her blush and taking out her rollers, she’d take the hair lotion and comb and work some kind of miracle on my hair.

I don’t remember the first relaxer I ever had, or the next couple after that. But I do remember them as I grew older. I can remember going to Mrs. Gammon’s down in the city, and walking into the dimly lit salon. It had a very 70’s type feel to it, with older equipment, and those long ivy-like plants that seem to make even the newest shops look old. She always had this giant glass jar full of pickles, and I somehow almost always managed to buy one for a dollar. I can remember going in while the sun was high up in the sky and then stepping out hours later as the sun was kissed the rooftops. I never went on this adventure alone; it was always my sister and I. We’d walk in, and perhaps after waiting a while, she’d be ready. We’d argue over who was going first, but I always lost. My hair was longer and thicker, so it would longer and if I went first, she could start on my sister halfway through and we’d be done around the same time.
You would sit in the chair and she’d gracefully throw the dark blue cape around your neck, the paper tissue she’d wrapped around your neck a moment earlier to ensure it some comfort would crinkle as she fastened it. Making small talk, she’d grab the relaxer chemical and put on latex gloves. She’d apply some grease around the edges of your hair as not to burn that skin. Then the real “fun” began. She’d dip her hand into a large jar of the white chemical (the relaxer), part your hair, and then spread it over the part. This process felt like it would take forever, for as she got to the halfway mark, it burned a little. The 2/3rds mark, it burned a bit more. And while she was done, and told you to sit there for a while, it burned a lot more. Someone once told me this burning effect was proof that the chemical was working. When you’re sitting there, with this goop on your head burning through your scalp, all you can keep telling yourself is that, and that it will look pretty in the end.
After sitting there for what seems like excruciatingly painful long hours, she’d come back from dealing with another customer or watching TV, and would walk you over to the sink. I never thought a sink could be used as a torture device until before then. The sink had a big groove in it, so the neck could fit “with ease”. However, these ceramic sinks always seemed to torture me, my neck bones rubbing against the sink edge painfully. After this wash, after the pain somewhat subsided, she’d leave me there so my hair could dry out a bit. I can remember staring at the ceiling, and the AC fan that always seemed like it would collapse on me any minute. I remember looking to the right and seeing a roll of fly paper that had captured multiple unlucky flies.
Then the most pointlessly long, and painful part of the process would come: the hair dryer. These things look like they could have fit Marge Simpson’s stack of hair in them with plenty of room to spare. Giant machines, they were loud and old. As soon as I got up from the sink, she’d drive me back to the chair, where she’d stick what seemed like hundreds of giant plastic rollers in my hair that made my head feel twice as heavy. They’d be clipped in with these hard, silver metal clips that caught against my skin. Then she’d sit me there under the dryer, when I was younger- with a couple of phonebooks under my bum- and instruct me to sit still. She’d sometimes place more of that hair paper around my ears so they wouldn’t get overheated by the dryer. It would turn on with a huge surge of electricity and I’d be held captive for hours, instructed not to move a hair and to sit up straight. The dry, heated air would burn my eyes, ears and forehead. Hours would wiz by and I’d see my sister go through this same process, and yet be done way before me. Somewhere during the process, she’d come and check on me, lifting the lid up and feeling my hair. I’d get so excited, ready to jump out of the chair, but then she’d drop the lid and say, “not yet”, simultaneously crushing my spirits. Then, when I’d least expect it, she’d come and lift the dryer, freeing me from my prison. I’d bounce to the chair, ready to be released from the giant rollers. It’d take only a few minutes, curls emerging from every surface upon my hair. They’d be crispy; I could hear them fry in the hairdryer and then snap when she unwound them, the smell of burnt hair would fill the air and burn your nostrils. Sometimes we’d wait a while for one of my parents to show up, but on a good day, they’d be there, waiting. Sometimes we’d be there on a school day, perhaps going to one class, leaving for the salon and only coming back in time for the last half hour. Other times, my Saturday mornings would be wasted with such pointlessly long appointments.
Yet the process still wasn’t over. Later that night, my mom and I would go through the same old argument about rolling up my hair. It would take forever, especially with the end papers (toilet paper looking squares that would go around the spongy part of the roller so my hair wouldn’t to it). She’d wrap my rollered hair in a stocking to try and keep them tight. They’d make it hard to sleep, almost one or two always snapped open and escaping during the night, leaving a strand of hair flat as day. It would look pretty for a few days and then I’d fall into my usual pattern of scrunching and go.

Going away to college, I knew I would be faced with many differences- one of them being aspects about hair. The inevitable bombardment of questions came: “Why don’t you ever cut your hair? Why can’t you get your hair wet? Why do you scratch it before you wash it? Why don’t you wash it everyday? Isn’t that what it naturally looks like? What is this thing you call a “relaxer”? Why do you wrap it?” While growing up, my mom did well to prepare me for such a barrage of questions. I never minded answering them. “I don’t wash it because it needs those natural oils you wash away everyday. I don’t get it wet because then I would have to go through the whole- wash, blow dry, straighten process and it takes forever and a day. I scratch it before I wash it to get all the dandruff up so it gets really clean. It is naturally extremely curly.” I hated washing it in college; the showers would never remain hot enough, long enough. There were sinks instead, but they were shallow and always full of toothpaste, or cereal that people dumped out the night before. I’d beg my roommate to straighten the back parts of my hair, my arms long tired from scratching, washing and blow-drying my hair. We’d open the windows and fan the smoke detectors so we wouldn’t be blamed for a fire alarm. Regardless, our room would smell like burnt hair and grease for hours.

As I set in that salon chair, nervously, waiting for the extension of my mother to be buzzed away, all this ran through my mind. I thought about how many years of love my mother had given it- and, on the rare occasion I thought it actually looked good and cooperated with me, the love I gave it. The previous conversations (which quickly turned into heated arguments) about my hair ran through my mind.
“Catherine, you’re being unreasonable. Don’t you know how many people would love to have your hair?! Look at how thin mine has become from being sick- I would love to have hair like yours!”
“If they want it so bad, I can send it to them after I cut mine! Mom, you’re the one who has always told me not to concern myself with what other people are doing.”
“Cat. No, you’re not cutting your hair.”
And then, later, the conversations with my dad about it:
“Dad, I’m going to cut my hair. It’s mine; I should be able to do whatever I want with it.”
“No you’re not.”
“Why not?”
“Catherine, don’t be ridiculous. Listen to your mother, I like your hair.”


I sat there, wondering if I was really doing the right thing. I’d debated about it for what felt like my whole life. Finally, something that had really kept me from living was being cut away. My long, black hair pleaded with me, do not cut me. It sat around my shoulders, hugging me in a last chance effort to win me over with its shininess, warmth, and the accepted social appearance that came with it. I closed my eyes and thought about the looks on my friend’s faces as I had turned to look at them one more time with every long, dark brown hair on my head: approval, confidence, hope, strength, love, their smiles- reassuring; the light in their eyes, comforting.

With the first small snippet, I had had the first haircut and biggest of my life. As soon as the scissors snipped, not only did hair fall to the ground, but so did my misery. I felt the weight falling off my shoulders, literally and figuratively. I stared at the ground while I saw pieces of me slowly raining down the gray smock and onto the floor. With each cut, I felt more alive. The negative pieces of me, the parts of guilt and fear- died. The argument with my mother and father before we walked in the salon died. My fear that I would look like a creeper with out my hair, died. And most importantly, my hesitation about how I might regret it, died. For once, I felt like I had really made the right decision.

I slowly stood up from that chair, renewed; confident in myself and what I stood for. The stylist asked me if I wanted to keep my hair (chemically treated hair can’t be donated) and I did. Bag in tow and friends at my side, I strode out of that place never looking back, hairless.

You never know how much hair is a daily part of your life until you have none. You never realize how it keeps your head warm until you have none. You never realize the social acceptance it permits you until you have none. But, you’ll never know how wonderful it is when the wind blows across your scalp. You’ll never know how free you can feel until it’s gone. You’ll never be forced to be confident in your looks until you have to own your hairless head.

Weak today, strong tomorrow. Hair today, gone tomorrow.

Hair.... Cut!