I Want To Live My Life The Way I Wear My Hair

A comfort zone is a beautiful place but nothing ever grows there.

Unknown

A woman who cuts her hair is about to change her life.

Coco Chanel

You have such pretty hair. Don’t ever cut it. When I was 10, I had fine straight hair that flowed down my back. I must’ve seen that compliment as a dare, because suddenly I was obsessed with freedom from my hair’s tangled tyranny. My “go-to” pony-tailed style I wore every day to keep my hair out of my face suddenly seemed babyish.

Since it was the early 80s, all the cool high school girls I knew had sophisticated, feathered hair. I saw them board our bus that took the all the elementary and high school kids to Catholic school.

It helped too that they didn’t wear my hideous St. Ann’s uniform of a green and brown jumper with yellow peter pan collared blouse, set off by a matching green/brown snap tie. They got to wear the more refined (to my eye) Immaculata uniform of plaid skirts and tops in soothing shades of blue.

They’d laugh with the older boys, cracking their gum and casually running their fingers through their hair as they flirted. Their perfect curls would snap smartly into place. I envied them their swooping Farrah Fawcett hair, lush and full. If I had this cut, it would change my life. I would be popular. I would be beautiful.  

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Finally, after months of begging, my mom caved and we went to the salon. I squealed when the stylist spun me around to face the mirror. I loved my look.

For the rest of the day I felt my hair bouncing about my newly exposed collarbone. I felt sophisticated–like a girl on the cover of Seventeen magazine!

Staring in the mirror like Narcissus with his pond, I mimicked those preening gestures of the older girls. Look out 5^th grade, there’s a new cool girl in town! I felt giddy with possibility.

Unfortunately, reality stepped in the next morning. I struggled with recreating the look once it was just shaky-handed me, a curling iron and some aqua net hairspray. Who knew that it helped to actually be Farrah Fawcett and have her hair to achieve her look? Evidently I didn’t. The stylist didn’t let me in on that secret either.

But after some trial and error and a few forehead burns, I was able to execute a somewhat passable version of Farrah Fawcett’s look on my uncooperative hair. Surprisingly, my life didn’t change except if you count the diminished amount of shampoo and conditioner I needed. Still, I had no regrets—my long hair was annoying. I was free.

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I think the magic of that day planted the seed for my career change in my mid-20s. I’m now that hairstylist who looks different each time you see me. I’ve tried almost every natural looking hair color and even a few unnatural ones. My hair has been past my collarbone and it’s been 3/8” on top of my head and every length in between.  

I’ve been told how brave I am to experiment like that with my hair. I laugh uncomfortably because of how low the bar is set on bravery then—it’s not like I’m rushing into a burning building to rescue small children or anything. It’s just hair.

But it got me to thinking. I want to live my life the way I wear my hair. To allow curiosity and open-mindedness to influence my path in life. To think outside of the box. And not be so attached to the end result. I do this with my hair, why not my life?

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Hair can teach me to observe the colors and shadings in my world and question everything. Ask if it’s necessary. Hold my plans lightly. When something stops working, adjust and move on. And don’t let fear dictate my decisions.

I realize now that extreme hair transformations have always been my way of jumping into the bracing waters of change. Because change will occur regardless. My son Jack will always have special needs, but he still evolves and matures. This requires my own transformation–just on the inside.

I know I have a long ways to go. Writing this blog was something I could never have imagined doing back when Jack was a baby and I had Early Intervention therapists cycling through our home. Or that I’ve now applied to a 9 month program to become a better advocate for my son and for others with cognitive disabilities. I may not get accepted, or if I do, I may fail spectacularly to balance my family, work and this new opportunity.

But that’s part of the excitement. The journey and the knowledge gained is the reward not the end result. Much like with my hair. After all, when I picked up my clippers for the first time to buzz off all my hair, my heart raced, but I kept on, excited by my liberation. But I hope I never decide to get the feathered look again. No way do I want to tango with a curling iron first thing in the morning. But at least this time I’ll be prepared. I trust my stylist, after all.