Dredging up more old writing, the following is another essay assignment written in the eighties for a college expository writing class. The requirements: it must be a story about hair; it could be true or fictional (this is a true story – personal was always most encouraged); it must contain a metaphor; and be a limited to 1½ – 2 double-spaced typewritten pages.
First Haircut
At school, my braids were always a source of both pride and embarrassment. As an adolescent, I considered myself well-adjusted but even more, as singular and unique. A good part of this self-perception was focused on my tresses, which were knee-length and usually worn in braids for practical reasons. Occasionally I wore my hair unbound, hanging freely, and this always elicited awe and admiration. People openly stared and some would turn and continue gawking in amazement at my back as I passed by. Even my braids would turn heads and comments in my direction. Of course, this went a long way toward elevating my vainglorious ego, but there was always a trivial sense of embarrassment too, at being “different,” since adolescents are usually conformists. My school chums begged me to wear my hair down all the time, but I was not often willing to put up with the distraction or the discomfort.
It never occurred to me to have my hair cut until I found myself with the romantic lead part in the annual school play. I had the part of a sophisticated, adult woman and had a hard time visualizing myself on the stage with either braids or unconfined tresses. I remember rationalizing that I couldn’t wear braids forever, I had to grow up sometime and conform, and so I began dwelling on the intimidating aspect of being stared at all the time. I actively suppressed my normal high value for being distinctive along with my relish for attention and admiration. I could “see” that I looked childish and unsophisticated in braids, but neither would it do to just wear my hair down. After all, I would be going to high school next year and of course, I would have to do something about it by then anyway.
Armed with these arguments, along with some peer pressure, to which I characteristically did not succumb, I asked my parents if I could have my hair cut and styled to something more appropriate for my part in the play. They accepted my juvenile rationale and so, I found myself being ushered into the inner sanctum of the neighborhood beauty parlor. I was immediately impressed with a sense that I was about to make a mistake. The offensive smells alone nearly caused me to turn about and make a dash for the outside door, but the visual repugnance was even more overwhelming. It was late in the day and I supposed that all the shearing, the shampooing, the curling and drying of scores of women with no one to clean it up along the way, must be justification for such a “unbeauteous” beauty parlor. I found myself seated, however, with a mounting sense of reluctance that was rapidly escalating to panic. I had without a doubt left all my rationale outside the door.
Sitting in that chair being positioned and prepared, I felt like the innocent victim convicted of a crime I had not committed, being instructed and restrained in the electric chair. My executioner asked me if I’d ever had this done before, and the moment she heard my negative response, shouted for her co-executioners to come and witness the cutting of my “virgin hair.” Her invitation was devastating and completed my mental disorientation, but I sat there without flinching, determined now to see it through.
Then came that terrible grinding sound – the scissors cutting through those beautiful, silken filaments. They went floating dreamily downward toward the dirty floor, dismembered and detached from my head. They had been lovely and organized there on my head and now they lay crumpled and lifeless with all the other executions of the day. She was stepping on them, scattering them around and inter-mixing them. They were me and they were getting all mixed up with all the rest of them and I could no longer tell my hairs – me – from the rest. They didn’t look different or unique anymore, and now, neither did I.
I don’t know if my audience noticed the silent tears falling to the floor with all the mixed-up hair.
