I don’t think there was ever a time where I enjoyed getting a haircut. As a little girl, it was because a stranger was taking a pair of scary-looking scissors to my head. Now that I’m older, it’s because a stranger is taking a pair of scary-looking scissors to my head. And now I’m expected to make small talk while they do it, which is all sorts of torture for the introverted, social anxiety driven side of me.
I love the weightless feeling that comes with a haircut. With my longer, thicker hair, something as small as two inches cut away makes a significant difference. I will admit that it is nice not to have to use as much of my neck strength to hold my head in place. However, I usually have to deal with separation anxiety from those two inches for a few days after my haircut. I get a panicky feeling every time I run my hands through my hair, and seeing my shorter hair in the mirror makes me cringe. Granted, my hair is long enough that no one really notices when an inch or two goes missing, but I know that it’s missing, and that is enough to make me miss it.
Just after I get a haircut is the most noticeable moment of hair loss for me, but in all reality, I probably lose like ten percent of my hair each day. There’s always a nice little blanket of it on the shower walls, the blue carpet of my bedroom glints blonde if I haven’t vacuumed for a while, and usually I can find a long, strawberry-blonde piece of hair drifting on the highest shelf in the office.
My mom once made the comment that we don’t need a dog because I shed like one. The sad thing is, I can’t really argue because it is mostly true. My hair somehow makes it’s way to rooms in the house that I haven’t entered for days. My lost strands of hair have probably seen and done more than I have in my entire lifetime. I need to start attaching little cameras to each individual strand so that when it falls, I’ll have video footage for that area. Who needs government surveillance when my hair cameras could give me access to most of the United States? (Heck, between wind and ocean currents, I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s a strawberry-blonde hair chilling out somewhere in Japan or Africa).
My hair seems to specialize in finding it’s way into food, even if I’ve been hunkering down in cave/bedroom and I haven’t set foot in the kitchen for five hours. I could just be sitting down at the table, and my brother will somehow find a foot-long strand nestled in his spaghetti.
My hair’s other favorite hiding spot is on the clothes of my family. My shirt can be hair-free, but my brother will have five different strands streaming proudly from his shirt-sleeve. I’ve told Bryce to wear them with pride, like little blonde medallions, but he hasn’t seen the appeal yet.
What I find most frustrating with my hair is that I can’t even blame this hairy takeover on my mom or sister. My hair is strawberry-blonde, while my mother’s is red and my sister’s is blonde. This should work to my advantage because it could pass for either, but unfortunately, the length and unorganized curliness of it gives me away. As much as I love the uniqueness of my mane of luscious locks, it’s hard to pass it off as someone else’s.
Bryce should grow a mullet. Then I would have the perfect scapegoat.
I’ve frustrated many people with my hair, but there’s not much I can do but shrug and say “sorry”. It’s not like I actively decide when and where my hair falls. I don’t walk into the house and think: “The food has been placed on the table. Time to release the follicles!”. No, my hair does whatever it pleases; I have no say in it’s actions. I’m the victim, here.
At some point my own hair will turn on me and suffocate me in my sleep. I’m surprised that I haven’t woken up with half my hair lodged down my throat.
I could pull my hair into a ponytail, then twist it into a bun, then put on a bald cap, then wear a showercap over the bald cap, then wrap the shower cap in a turban and my hair would still find a way to escape. The only way I can keep my surroundings hair-free is if I went hair-free myself and just shaved it all off. By this point, the weight of my hair is the only thing keeping me grounded. Without 20 pounds of hair to hold me down, I would just float away, never to be seen again.
And as interesting as space is, I’m happy here on Earth, thank you very much. There may come a day where my hair makes it’s way to the deepest, darkest reaches of space and time, but for now I’m content to let it slowly invade earth, one strand at a time.