When I was a little girl, up to eight years old, my mother had total control over my hair. She chose my haircut and styled my hair to perfection every morning. Because she had two other girls to prep in the morning, hair-wise, she always chose to keep my hair very short to save time and effort. That is why I always appear in old pictures with my hair à la garson. In other words, with boy hair.

So to retaliate, I grew my hair when I gained control over it. It got long and feminine and traditional. Very pretty stuff — but terribly impractical and boring for a person who wears the veil and has virtually no audience or competition. It got to a crazy length because I had a goal of getting it to that crazy length. Then, poof!, why have long hair after that?

I developed a desire –let’s call it that– to want to shave my head. I realized that it would be too drastic if I didn’t consult with family first, or at least hint that they will be living with a bald girl for some weeks. So I “hinted” at it and the responses came positive. Then the thought so consumed my free time that it grew into an obsession. I kept calculating the possible consequences and imagining how I would look like, all the time.

Relax. I didn’t do it (at least then.) I realized that I had two holes in my head (translation:cuts) and that they would probably not look very sexy in the sun with my hair all gone. And then Britney Spears shaved her head at that time and just eternally ruined it for me. If I went ahead and did it then, people will not only think of me as a dysfunctional rebel, but as a Britney fan. I live with the first label but the second is just a no-no.

It seems my mother had it right all along. I have a tiny face and a petite body structure, so growing my hair turns me into a toothpick topped with a wannabee-hairball. That was my conclusion after years of exhausting combs and brushes and sweating at night. I eventually went back to my roots: hair à la (very short) garson. My gallery of earrings showed, at last!, and I looked 16, easy. I still do, yay!
I’ve had the “do” on for a considerable time now (over a year), but every time I go to the hair salon to get my hair cut/trimmed, the women there bombard me with questions and comments. Three months ago, I went and got it cut again at a new place. They called the women from adjacent places to come see the stranger, pleaded/argued with me for fifteen minutes not to “do it,” and they even shot videos of me after the hair was cut. It didn’t help that I had navy blue nail polish on, and the piercings did not help either. I felt like such a freak of nature that day.

Then there’s this strange hesitation to cut that I’ve encountered. I have to literally convince, encourage, and keep on pushing the haircutter to actually cut as much as I want her to. I think it is due to the whole cultural outlook that women should always have long hair and that it’s more feminine and desirable, that holds haircutters back. Of course, you always have the haircutter who develops a personal attachment to your hair and refuses to cut an inch more out of “love.”

Then there’s always the onlookers — women at the salon who have nothing better to do that lecture you (me) on how “your hair is so gorgeous, don’t cut it!!” and how “your hair is the crown of your beauty,” and then ask how my parents let me do this and remark that they must be very open-minded people. These women always have long hair and nail polish that’s chipping off, and they usually smoke and gossip, and I bet they think I’m lesbian.

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This entry was posted on Saturday, June 9th, 2007 at 8:30 pm and is filed under Personal. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.