I'm not a fan of haircuts. I never have been. I don't remember crying or throwing tantrums when my mother took me to the barber to get my locks shorn. But, I do remember feelings of dread as I climbed into the chair. I would look in the mirror and try to imprint that image into my memory. That was me staring back at me. I knew once the barber did his duty, I would no longer be me. Not that I would turn into someone else, but I would be a different me; I would be reinvented, and I would have to start over in becoming comfortable with me. Hair is a part of who you are; it is part of your identity. So, you can't be you if you change your hair.
I'm still like that. I know I need to get my hair cut; yet, I put it off as long as possible. On the other hand, after two years in Catholic school, I'm reticent to let my hair grow too long. Once it's over my ears or my collar, I usually make an appointment at the salon. Although I don't like to get it cut, I don't particularly like it long either. It's just one of those dichotomies that make me me.
So, it's significant that this October marks one year since my last haircut. The last time a pair of scissors touched these tresses, I was in the Holy Land. I went to Chezie, a friend of the family and profession stylist. It was a nice haircut. Still, it took getting used to because it was very different from what I usually get. As it grew out and lost its shape, I watched it grow and did nothing. As I took note of losing sight of my ears, I did nothing. Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore; I was beginning to look like a Beatle, and still I did nothing. Then, about four or five months after Chezie, I realized I still hadn't gotten a haircut. I also realized it had been almost six months. My record for not getting a cut was seven months. Now I was on a mission. I had to break my personal record.
When I was in graduate school, I knew a student who had long hair. One day he came to class, and his hair was short. I asked what happened, and he told me he had donated his hair to Locks of Love. I thought that was great and said one day I, too, would commit this act of charity.
Charity seems so easy. Drop a few coins in a donation box. Write a check and mail it off. Give a homeless person your leftovers from the restaurant. Yet, when you think about it, charity is about sacrificing so others don't have to. Although a few pennies in a pushke won't affect most of us, we are still giving up something for other people's happiness. I believe the more you sacrifice, the greater the charity.
I had no idea how much I would sacrifice when I started down this road. It seemed so simple when I began: don't cut my hair, no biggie. It never occurred to me I would be going through so many awkward stages along the way. It never occurred to me I would look so scruffy and unprofessional. It never occurred to me I would whine and moan about it so much. Yet, here I am, a year into it and going strong.
All of this to say that I'd like to thank everyone for their support: my management for giving the go-ahead even though I am a spokesperson for the agency; my colleagues for their encouragement (even if it comes in the form of teasing); my friends for their hair advice; and Sarit for always talking me out of cutting my hair.
Thanks!
