Commitment as Haircut
You thought I was joking, didn’t you? But I wasn’t. I just got off the phone with Rita B Salon, having made a commitment to cut my hair off. I mean OFF, like to less than two inches long. Shannon, our local lesbian avante garde punk coif mistress is going to do it. (This, by the way, is the woman who, when Grandpa first saw her was described thus: “Jesus, that woman needs to do something with her hair! Looks like she stuck her finger in a light socket!” But then again Kris spent most of her life mulleted in Pueblo and is not much for spikes. I’m not saying she doesn’t have good taste. Love you, G’Pa!)
Shannon’s never cut my hair before but I picked her instead of my cheaper gayboy Johnny at Fantastic Sam’s because a) I’ve come to admire the bold artistry of her work; b) I’m making a purposefully radical move, which I think requires an unflinching, even enthusiastic perspective on the part of the stylist; and c) I get the feeling that if I cried in front of her she’d just happily pass me a Kleenex and keep cutting.
And I’m giving myself permission to cry. Because the bottom line is that I’m cutting my hair really short because I realize I’ve become afraid of all the gray I have. I’m afraid of it making me look old, too old, “older than I am.” I’m afraid of it reminding me that I am, in fact, officially pushing 40 (2/8/08). And that fear gives it more power than I want it to have. So I’ve decided to face it, look it in the eye, as it were; cut off all that’s been dyed and see what the pattern underneath really is. And then spend at least a few days seeing how I feel about it, loving it, making peace with it. Then if I decide to play with color, or just dye the whole mess, I’ll do that. But I’ll at least have given myself a conscious pause.
In a series of pictures of me as a newborn, my dad is cradling me in his beautiful carpenter arms, wearing a white t-shirt. He’s looking down at me, smiling, and his full head of hair is almost entirely silver, with enough dark underneath to make him really handsome. He was only 40. My brother, at 37, who had the deepest brown-black hair growing up, is full salt-and-pepper now. My mom’s a different story; she didn’t get seriously gray until much later, and, besides, she’s dyed her hair red for as long as I can remember. So from my fraternal line we are a family that is, as they say, “premature” gray. Not a big deal for the men; my brother doesn’t seem to worry about it and people say it makes him look distinctive.
But women get a whole different message about gray than men and it pisses me off. Incredible cultural baggage is dumped on us about even a few gray hairs (and everything else, of course) and there’s part of me–the feminist, the Aquarius, the rebel?–that just doesn’t want to buy into it. Don’t get me wrong: I have no judgment about women coloring their hair; I think it is absolutely our aesthetic prerogative and we should do whatever the heck we want to with our bodies, including facelifts, or Botox, or whatever we choose. The point is that even if I do decide to color my hair again, which I’m sure I will, whether it’s later this week or five years from now, I just don’t want to do it with fear gnawing at the edges. In fact, I don’t want to age with fear gnawing at the edges. Yet as I’ve been creeping closer to 40, and perhaps especially because I’m still single, it’s very much been happening. I’m increasingly critical of my body (a body that is fine, healthy, and actually pretty rockin), about the wrinkles under my eyes, about the sun spots on my forehead, about those funny places you stumble upon where you find–egads!–crepe skin. And this just adds to the general pool of life-anxiety I’m always trying to manage. Who needs the fucking extra?
I distinctly remember being 10, and one of my mom’s friends, who was about 40, had short hair that was getting gray, that she did not dye. I thought she was awesome and I distinctly remember thinking that I wanted to be like her when I grew up: beautiful and strong in a natural, but still stylish way.
Tanya and I have talked about this several times, and one of her points is that if gray, or whatever color, hair doesn’t seem to fit your personality, because your whole life, say, you were a sandy blonde, or you’re just in a redhead phase, then you should go for the coloring that fits you. I don’t disagree. In fact, I think Viveca, for example, looks more “Viv” the blonder she is. (After all, she’s half Swedish.) My hair had a lot of blonde in it until I moved to New York, and maybe I’ll go back to that. Or maybe I’ll make use of the porousness of the grey and dye a few pieces of my new hair PINK! You don’t think I would?
But for now I’m committing to spending a little time with what is and working on not being afraid of it, embracing it even. Even if it means the curls are much shorter for awhile and I burp up a little when I walk by a mirror for a few days.
Wish me luck. Haircut’s in a half hour.
