It’s Just Hair, Right?
We sat there waiting for our third flight of the trip home. Everyone sat with glazed eyes, staring off into the distance as exhaustion soaked into our bones. Some celebrated over meals of “American food” found in the airport. Others slept on the floor or otherwise empty seats, their backpacks and carry-ons tucked under their heads as pillows. A few of us gathered in a group, excitedly talking about our plans when we get home.
A hot shower.
Different clothes.
Sleeping in our beds.
Seeing family and friends.
A cheese burger and fries.
“Do you have any plans when you get back, Megan?” a buddy of mine asked.
“Shaving my head,” I quipped back.
Disbelief filled his face, surprised by my answer. He remarked that it was a brave move. One of the girls on the trip quickly gave me her Snapchat, asking me to send her pictures when I did it.
* * * * *
That evening, after the eventfulness of waiting for my roommates to arrive home because I forgot my keys and an afternoon out, I looked at Geneva and posed the question I had tossed around earlier that day, “Want to shave my head?”
Our bathroom was quickly turned into a hair salon like the many times it had been before, except this time mistakes didn’t really matter. My heart raced in a flurry of nervousness and excitement.
First came the scissors to hack away at the four inches of hair left on top of my head from my pixie cut, attempting to make the clippers’ job easier, chopping off chunks of longer hair.
Looking like a Barbie that a child took scissors to, I put the guard on the clippers, plugged them in, and turned them on.
Bbbzzzzzzzzzzz… They rattled in Geneva’s hand as she guided them down the middle of my head. That was it. No turning back. The hairless canyon in the middle of my head sealed the deal.
As I looked in the mirror, a laugh of nerves escaped my mouth. I couldn’t believe I just did that.
Geneva quickly ran the clippers over my head, erasing every trace of hair except for the eighth of an inch left by the guard on the clippers. That was it. I was kind of bald.
* * * * *
The laugh I let out as Geneva shaved my head, I soon realized was not just filled with holy shit I just did that. It was a trill of relief and freedom.
Before shaving my head, I worried if I looked good, if my hair was in the right place, if I was good enough. Even though I had worked for years to build up my confidence and love my own body, I still held on to residual feels of standards I was supposed to meet as a woman.
When my hair left my scalp, a lot of the weight of beauty standards and societal expectations that sat on my shoulders fell away as well. I quickly learned the subtle art of not giving a shit.
I instantly felt more confident in who I was. I didn’t care if people didn’t like what I looked I like. I could shrug off the assumptions made about my sexuality, my political views, and my opinions. I stopped paying attention to the expectations other people put on me. My hair was a statement in itself. Gone was the pressure to dress up for anyone other than myself.
I finally felt like myself. It felt right. And with that I gained confidence I never knew I had. I began to take more risks in my appearance because that one risk paid off as I started to find myself hidden amongst the information women are inundated with from birth. I could finally look in a mirror and think “This is me.”
