I was born with jet black hair. The kind of black that looks like ink oozing from a leaky pen. My sisters thought I was from China. I could have been an Eskimo. One of the nurses put a purple ribbon in my hair. It has been my favorite color ever since.
When I was five years old, I had burnt blonde hair that grew all the way down my back until it hit the top of my butt. It curled at the ends with little tendrils of gold spiraling all the way through. Sometimes my mother would part my hair down the middle and make two even braids. My older sisters would tug on them like I was Pippy Longstocking when we danced in the kitchen after dinner. My braids would spin around and hit my face like fallen feathers.
In seventh grade my sister told me I should get my hair cut. Her hair was short and all the boys in high school seemed to like her, so I thought why not. She took me to her hairdresser and off it came. Off like a pistol. My hair fell right along my shoulders. Shorter than it ever was, longer than it would become. I liked the feeling of hair falling, of my head feeling lighter, a change being made. I liked the feeling of looking brand new.
I got it cut right before my plane took off. It is still my favorite haircut to this day. Bangs that swept to the side with an angular cut of boy short hair in the back to longer length hair in the front. A Posh sort of style that felt appropriate before my trip to Europe. I left for France the next day and became a different person. I would pick flowers from various window boxes in the little French towns I visited, pinning them up into my hair, handing them out to the young men I met. Some would put them in their hair too. Some would take them out of mine. A collection of dried petals formed at the headboard of my bed, leaving a trace of me behind when I left.
Cut it. Cut it right now. I do not care who cuts it. I just want it cut. Let’s become somebody new again. That was the tequila talking, or the beer, or the weed, or the bubble gum. I grabbed my pink pair of scissors and handed them to Savannah. She wrapped a teal blue towel around my shoulders and began snipping away. Inch by inch my hair fell, more and more, until it covered the top layer of waste in our garbage bin. Once she stopped cutting, I told her to cut more. Until I could no longer run my fingers through it, or pull it back, or put it up, or throw it around. The next morning, I woke up wondering where all my hair went. I then saw the garbage. Opps.
In high school, my mother had the most beautiful hair. Like the hair of a cheerleader captain or football players’ girlfriend or Jesus loving hippie. She had hair that grew down her back in waves, in heaps, in moments. In golden strands of sun. She has it cut really short now, like most middle-aged women do. I ask her why she does not grow it long anymore. She says it is just something she outgrew.
Let it grow. Let it grow long. Let it grow out. Let it grow like you don’t care. Let it grow like a mermaid’s. Let it grow like your mother’s. Let it grow like trees. Let it grow because you haven’t felt hair down your back in years. Because you forgot that hair could grow. Because you forgot who Pippy Longstocking was. Let it grow back. Let it grow like sunflowers. Like India. Like graduating. Let it grow up.