Hair-raising Tales Part I: The Long and the Short of It.

"Because it was time to change my life

and become the woman that I am inside. . . ."

~ from "I am not my hair" by India.Airie

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Hair is a funny thing, isn't it? So many things are wrapped into how folks feel about hair. Childhood experiences. Cultural background. Gender and gender-identity. Religious beliefs. Geographic location. Access to competent hair stylists. All that.

Today I am reflecting on the story behind me and my short hair. . . .

May 2001. I remember vividly walking into this fancy salon in Cleveland approximately one month before my big move to Atlanta. In my hand was a picture I'd printed out of Halle Berry from the internet rocking her infamous pixie haircut. I'd always been known for my longish bob and had admired that haircut for a long time. I'd turned thirty earlier that year and had finally worked up the nerve to go for it.

"Cut my hair like this," I said, proudly passing the photo to the stylist.

I had chosen this stylist for two reasons. The first was that I heard that she was a short hair "master stylist" and was allegedly a wiz with shears. But the second was because I'd heard that she wasn't the least bit shy about cutting all of your damn hair off if you asked. Now. Let me clarify a few things for a moment. By now (unless you are visually impaired) you have probably realized that I am a black woman. And let me tell you--as someone who has the authority to say so--getting your hair cut all off (especially) if you are a black woman is kind of a big deal.

Okay.

So back to the big makeover. I hand this woman the picture as she runs her hand through my then shoulder-length bob. "Is your hair chemically treated?" she asked. "No, I just straighten it," I replied. She studied the ends, ran a comb through it, and even looked at my scalp. Then she narrowed her eyes and looked perplexed.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"Your hair," she answered while still raking her hand through my thick locks. "Your hair is healthy. And it's so thick and heavy. If I didn't have my hand in it, I'd think it was a weave."

Really? Coming from a "master stylist" (which was what her card said) that sounded like a good thing. "Well, that's good, right?"

"Well. . .I'm just. . .uuhhh. . .so why are you cutting all your hair off if it isn't damaged? I mean. . . .I am happy to cut it. But you have nice hair. I guess I'm just confused."

Of course she was.

This is where the cultural thing comes in. How dare you consider cutting hair that isn't "bad?"  It seems that if you are fortunate enough to have hair that a.) grows long, b.) has not been damaged by chemicals, c.) has not been strained by braids, oh, and d.) that you are planning on tryin' to wack all off, you'd better be ready to do some sho' nuff 'splainin' about why if you also happen to be a black woman up in a black hair salon. For real.

"I just like that hairstyle," I answered her matter-of-factly. Because that was true. I just liked the hairstyle. Simple as that.

"But to wear your hair this short in this style, you'll need to get it chemically relaxed. Your wave pattern would never allow it without getting a relaxer."

Hello? She wasn't the only sista in this conversation.

"I know that." I tried to keep cool but this was frustrating. Mostly because I had thought of all of that before. I had already shadow boxed in the mirror and pulled all of my hair off of my face and even palpated my head for lumps and bumps. I'd surfed the net, called my sisters, imagined what it would be like if I hated it and was forced to grow it back and all that. I had even practiced new makeup techniques and found a few cute pairs of dainty earrings. See? I was ready. Super ready for a new beginning and a new look. I was moving away to a new city with new faces and new adventures awaiting me. "Cut it off," I said emphatically. "Cut it all off."

Instead she just kind of stood there staring at me for a few moments. Then she cocked her head sideways and ran that comb slowly through my hair once more.

"How are things going in your life right now?" she finally asked pausing to fan my hair out under the comb.

Aww hells no! No she di-in't!

"Life is great. No, more than great. It's peachy."

"Gina says you are moving to Atlanta next month?" Yeah. Didn't you hear me say "peachy?" Get it? Peach-y? As in Atlanta?

My roommate, Gina, was the one who had referred me to this therapist, I mean stylist. Unless she had some Delta skymiles she was preparing to give me, I could see no reason for this line of questioning.

"Yep. Life is good. Got a great job in Atlanta. Can't wait. And am so psyched to get my hair cut today."

Take that. I ain't depressed. Just shut up and cut my hair, you "master stylist."

"Well. . . . " she finally said in this way that immediately gave me a sinking feeling. She lifted the comb and watched my hair cascade down toward my neck and shoulders. Like I was one of those Barbie doll heads. "That's a lot of life changes, don't you think?"

Aww, hell naw for real. This b*tch cannot be serious. (Yes. This is exactly what I was thinking.)

"It is and I thought of that. And while I appreciate your concern, I gave this a lot of thought. Do you want to cut me first or relax me first?" I figured I'd make an attempt to get this thing moving along before I ended up cussing her out for trying to psychoanalyze me.

She looked at the picture and then at my Barbie head again. "This is really drastic, sweetie," she finally said with a melodramatic sigh. I immediately considered dropkicking her for calling me "sweetie." I stared at her dryly and waited for the inevitable. "I mean. . . .okay. . .I tell you what, sweetie. If you come back in two weeks and you hand me this same picture and you still want your hair cut all off like this. . . .I will do it. But you need to be absolutely sure, sweetie. Come back in two weeks, okay?"

Grrrr.

But I was absolutely sure. Right then. Right there. She was treating me like that thing on that Google instant messaging system the med students told me about that makes you answer a math question before drunk messaging someone. I was not drunk. I was not depressed. I was not going through a crisis. I was just grown, and dammit, I just wanted a new look.

Where was Tyra Banks and her top model make over team when you needed them?

So . . . .as the story goes . . . .despite my best attempts to convince her to go on and cut my hair anyway, in the end I left there with my tail between my legs and my (healthy) hair upon my shoulders. For two more weeks.

Ugggh.

Two weeks later, you'd better believe that I marched right back in there and slammed down that picture like, "BAM!" Arms all folded, hip jutted out, lips all curled with my eyebrows raised like, Cut my hair, dammit. And that's exactly what the master stylist did.

Oh.

And I'm sure you are wondering, "Why did you even go back to her?" Two words. Cleveland. Ohio. (Beggars can't be choosy, y'all.)

Yep.

So that was the start of me and my short hair. Now, if this post hadn't already gotten kind of long, I would tell you about the elderly woman in the salon that day who threw the dryer hood up, got OUT of her chair and ALL UP in my face with her hair still in the roller set to wag her finger in my face and say, "You jest UNGRATEFUL!" She kept looking at my hair hitting the ground and then back at me with the grandmama version of the hairy eyeball. She poked her lips out, turned her mouth downward and shook her head so hard that I thought her neck would become dislocated. Then she repeated with extra venom and extra fire and brimstone in it--just in case I didn't hear her the first time. "You UN-GRATEFUL!! Jest UNGRATEFUL!!!" Straight up blasphemy, I tell you!

She sounded a lot like those poster-carrying evangelists on the corners of Bourbon Street in New Orleans. You know, the ones screaming at folks during Mardi Gras and informing them that they're going (straight) to hell? Yeah, like them.  As far as she was concerned, cutting all that "good" hair off for any reason other than illness was right up there with taking shots and doing those things folks do for beads. Oh, and that grandmama was serious, do you hear me? Serious as a heart attack.

Yeah. . .I would tell you about that part, but that's a whole 'nother story for a whole 'nother time. . . .

Short hair? That would be me.

"I looked in the mirror

and for the first time I saw that

Hey. . .I am not my hair

I am not this skin
I am the soul that lives within. . . ."

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Now playing on my internal iPod. . . . .



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So. . . .what kind of crazy hair sagas have y'all had in your neck of the woods?