Practicality
Hair.
I am 4 or 5 years old, staring in the bathroom mirror. In the reflection, I see Dad carefully combing my hair and cutting off the ends. It will be short again–practical for playing in the dirt outside or wrestling with my brother.
Hair.
I am 7 or 8 years old, staring in the bathroom mirror. In the reflection, I see Dad carefully combing my hair and cutting off the ends. It’s longer now. Long enough to tie into pigtails, but still short enough to stay out of the way.
Hair.
Middle School: I’ve started playing club soccer now. We drive hours every weekend to meet up with another team across the state. We always warm up and stretch before the game, but there is another ritual that happens before we even get in the car to go to the game; French braiding. I don’t like getting my hair yanked on, but a tight braid, close against the scalp is worth the pain. It’s all about practicality; I wouldn’t want hair getting in my face during a game.
Hair.
I’m 16 years old, staring in the bathroom mirror. In the reflection I see Dad carefully combing my hair and cutting off the ends. For a brief time, I had thought I was “too old” to be getting haircuts from my dad. Everyone else was getting their hair cut and styled by a professional. I followed suit and got my hair cut in layers. How frustrating to have wisps of hair flying in my face, even when I tied it back! Bobby pins were always a possibility–but was that really practical? No, it was back to home-style haircuts. Dad knew what was sensible.
Hair.
I’ve taken to braiding my hair in two long braids. It began as a pre-Cross Country race ritual, but has extended into everyday life. It makes me look several years younger than I am–not really the look I’m going for, but never a nuisance. Once in braids, it can stay there for days, like on a backpacking trip.
Hair.
It’s nearly gone. My head feels off balance after cutting off 12 inches for Locks for Love. I should be filled with a feeling of doing something good, but I mostly see how I look to be about 12 years old. I hope my hair grows fast.
Hair.
I am 19 years old. I’m home for the summer, working at a youth summer program. I’ve been playing Simon Says in the morning before our program starts. “Whew! It’s hot in here,” I say. “My hair is like a thick blanket. It might be too hot for summer weather.” “Can we cut it? Please, can we cut it?!!” the kids around me beg. It is only hair, I suppose. It’ll grow back eventually. Besides, when else is someone going to let them cut hair? I sit down on a stool and allow them to snip away.
Hair.
It’s another day of work at the summer program. The kids are eating morning snack, and I’m telling a story about growing up in the same valley as them. One kid asks, “How old are you now?” I tell them–19–and gasps of disbelief emit from the group. “Well, how old did you think I was?” I ask. A variety of explanations are provided, but one girl announces matter-of-factly, “I thought you had to be at least older than 22 because you don’t do your hair all fancy. You know, when people get older, they don’t really care about that kind of stuff.” In her view, it’s not until after college that we stop caring about how fancy our hair is and start keeping it simple and practical.
I guess my sense of caring more about practicality rather than appearance set in early. About 19 years early. Chances are, the next time I need a haircut, I’ll find myself waiting until I go home. I will stare into the bathroom mirror. In the reflection, I will see Dad carefully combing my hair and snipping off the ends.
