Ode to Hair
There’s only one way to commemorate a momentous event with atrocious chances of going awry and it’s through the harmonious art of haiku.
Unkempt, drab, uncut.
Give me fringe give me color.
The fact is that I have a tumulus relationship with my hair, which may be obvious by the uber-frequency with which I bemoan my frizz. I’ve never truly owned a single hair style, which is undoubtably frustrating as I feel as if I’ve experimented with them all. In high school, I dyed my hair until it was so unhealthy that it crumbled at the touch. I chopped it off and went pixie for years, grew it out, gave myself a (horrendous) DIY fringe, then embraced the curls and the natural wave.
But alas, it has come to this. Like a summer fling, I’m simply over it. Long, natural hair, get out of my life and give me room to breathe. I want change and drama and for goodness sakes, anything else but what you are. There’s no offense to be taken, Hair, as you were good while you lasted. But if I’m going to commit to being grandma fab, well, then these princess tresses just won’t do.
I’m cutting you off at my shoulders and taking you up a few hues, and I’m nervous because I haven’t dyed you in ten years. But. I’m feeling bold, pushing boundaries, taking risks… and I’m ready to let go.
I once read this quote saying that we consider hair to be luscious and sexy until we find it in a tangle on the floor, removed from our heads and collecting dust and dead skin while we sleep. My hair has become a health hazard, clogging bath drains in a few days and carpeting the ground in my room. My dog eats the hair on my floor to ease nausea and I’ve seen her throw it up on the grass like a cat just one too many times, so, clearly, it’s my hair that induces vomit.
And perhaps my eagerness to be rid of it all is all the more fervent because it’s unobstructed by the wills of men. Oh, if my poor dad knew my plans, he’d object. My last boyfriend (hi dear, I know you’re reading) was so vocal about how much he loved long hair that I feared cutting it off would expose some sort of biblical parallel with Sampson and Delilah, except I was Sampson and my hair empowered our love.
So I write this as an ode to hair, a post to keep in memorium for the years I’ve spent trying to grow it out and the months I’ve used to braid it into crown-compatible hairstyles. How I’ll wear it with a tiara is beyond my foresight, so, until I have to fiddle with my locks, I present you with a series of women who’s bold bangs have inspired by autumnal decision to do the fringe.