I wrote this piece for AP Lang and Comp in fall of 2009.
The color, the style, the shine—or lack thereof—and the length can help anyone pick another out of the crowd. It is the most easily manipulated part of our bodies thus the way it looks can reveal so much about our present and past selves. Hair grows as we do. Dead cell after dead cell piles up, and locks of hair sprout out of our heads. To some, it might seem odd that there is such an emphasis on the appearance erstwhile cells but our hair is more than just passive, limp strands. It is a vibrant display of the mind.
Hair flows from our head constantly, although slowly, no matter what is going on. Keeping my hair long allows all of my thoughts and feelings to remain with me although they do become harder to reach and more damaged as they move away from my brain. Having flowing locks of hair allows me to be reminded of past thoughts, hopes, and fears. Those slightly pink tips record when I had pink-tipped hair for less than a day over the summer—two of my friends and I had bought dye to test out before one of them dyed her whole head. That perfect curl brings back the memory of when I first learned how to use a curling iron at theatre camp. And that stretched out curl is the time I kept pulling it straight to keep from crying during a fight between my mom and brother. Having long hair allows me to twirl these memories around my fingers when I’m bored or distracted or to style them, comb through them, gel them into place to convey myself to everyone else. Slicing off hair removes the possibilities of tangibly considering these memories, the possibility of taking these memories and using them to form who I am. And every snip forever removes them.
This is not to say that I’m not guilty of mutilating my hair. I have cut my ponytail off twice. I snipped it off once for charity and once for lice. Each time I thought that my new style would be a welcome change. And yet every time that wasn’t the case. People were shocked, they didn’t recognize me. A group of boys wouldn’t even believe me when I insisted that I was a girl. They wouldn’t even believe my mother. I had gotten rid of what defined me without much thought. I never liked the way that I looked without my hair because I wasn’t myself without it. I had cut what had been with me for years. I had snipped what had helped shield my face when I wanted to be hidden. I had chopped what had grown with me. I had slashed what had kept me amused during long school days. I had severed what I had run my fingers through for comfort, left me different and unrecognizable. My hair was perfectly entwined with my past and cutting it off removed my past from me in a way that took away who I was.
Hair cannot grow forever without causing problems. Periodically there is a need to trim or cut or shorten hair to prevent a rat’s nest from forming. When split ends dominate old hairs, when a tip is far enough from the head that it ceases to be relevant, and a time to undergo a change. But these times are not often; our hair carries so much with it and disposing of it too early can prevent important growth in the way people present themselves and in the way they call upon past memories. We should never dismiss something just because it is a little less present, a little less close to our heads.
(Prompt by Mr. Wright but encouraged by Emily Kleeman)
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