I’m a gal who’s been keeping a secret. I have been pretending to be someone I’m not. I’ve been sporting a long, drab pile of hair that isn’t becoming for too long. I’ve been pretending to be someone’s granny, piling it all up in a neat little twisty bun and keeping it away from the world. I could have passed with the Mennonite ladies around here with my modest hairdo, if only they were unable to see the blackness of my soul.
But I digress. Last week I did the thing I’ve been threatening myself about. I marched to my favourite hair bin (The Hair Bin, incidentally) and plopped myself in the chair of the lovely Robyn. I told her to kill the old lady and leave someone younger in her place. And that’s what she did.
Leaving the shop, I knew I had made the right decision when I was LOVING the feel of my hair off my shoulders. When I looked in the mirror, I looked like myself again, something that has been eluding me for years.
Chopping off one’s hair has a symbolic weight to it. By choosing to remove something so valued as a feminine badge of honour, one makes a bold step toward reclaiming a new identity, one that does not center on the object of physical beauty. Ironically enough, by cutting off my ‘mane’, I gained the perspective I have been missing for months. I like this version of me. It matches the salty, somewhat hostile flavour I have been giving out for the past couple of years. It says I don’t need hair down to my ass to feel feminine, and that my personality is as light and changeable as my new ‘do. Consider yourself warned.
My hair is no indicator of my femininity or my value as a woman, but it’s a hell of a good way to feel fantastic as one creeps ever closer to the Inner Crone.