I got my hair cut this weekend.
It has only been in recent years that I began to experience that unique relationship between stylist and client. I'm not a naturally effusive or talkative person, so it's not as if I've shared any deep secrets or thoughts. Yet, my ambivalence and insecurity about my hair (my being?) has seemed evident to each of them.
I started getting grey (gray? silver? white?) hair in my late 20's. The idea of coloring my hair for the next 60 years or so was not appealing. I have vivid memories of my mother's home dyes--the smell, the dripping, the weird results. I decided then that I wouldn't start. There are things I like about my hair, and I'm often randomly complimented on its color and appearance. I've been stopped on the street, in stores, and at work by people wanting to comment on my hair. Just two weeks ago, boarding a plane in DC, a woman standing behind me leaned forward to whisper, "Excuse me, but I have to tell you your hair is stunning."
Stylists love to play with my hair. They all encourage me to be freer with it, loosen up a little. For me, though, there seem to be only two states--controlled or out of control. I spent my childhood and teen years hating my hair, unable to find a way to deal with it. It curled just enough to be annoying, not enough to be cute. I wanted "cheerleader hair," long, straight, and blond. I had "nerd hair," short, curly, and brown. I find it hard to let those hard feelings and resentment go.
I often think of my growing up as a time of wanting some undefined "more"--more challenge, more stimulation, more something. I'm beginning to believe that maybe part of getting more is trying less, letting go.
I did surprise her yesterday by saying I've always wanted to put a pink streak in my hair.....
