I really love my hair. It’s the only part of me that I have no complaints about. So I like to keep it long. Like Samson’s crowning glory, I feel my hair has its powers – giving me confidence on the precious few days that I lack it, providing me warmth and comfort on the fewer days that Gim isn’t by my side and hiding the crest of my boobs when my bra doesn’t quite fit.
But sometimes, on momentous occasions, I do cut it. (Which is different from trimming, which is just a grooming thing, not a life changing event.) Like right after high school, to commemorate my entrace into trial-adulthood and to be able to distract people away from looking at the tires in my waist and the bags in my thighs that my teeny tiny tight college uniform couldn’t hide even if I had bribed the seamstress with double the cost, I cut it. Like in the summer of my junior year in college – when I had finally successfully shed the record-breakingly-enormous-baby fat from my thighs, arms, waist, hips and face after months and months of jogging and sit-ups and right before I got my first official boyfriend, I cut it. Like right before graduation, to look pretty and cute as I walked up the podium to accept my diploma and my cum laude gold medal as I bid my childhood goodbye forever and ever (and just to drive my boyfriend crazy with longing and desire), I cut it.
And last Sunday. I cut it. With my own scissors and my own hands. In probably the worst cut I have ever received in my life. A raw and edgy cut. My scraggly hair in uneven lengths. To represent renewal, birth. To celebrate life. To be grateful to be alive.
(If you’re wondering why my cut looks pretty in the picture, well of course I couldn’t leave my hair so raw and ugly like when I cut it! It would be blasphemous. So on Tuesday, I took myself to a salon and got it cut righteously.)