My Hair

This a reflection of the most selfish kind. It’s a narrative of how my hair communicates to me. Nothing for you to be really interested in. But do read if you are curious.

I have always talked to my hair, ever since i was 5, maybe even before. You see, my hair had it’s own language, it would tell me stories about my body and my soul. When i was young, and i was confused, my hair would tell me what to do. I am not trying act supernatural right now. I remember, clearly, whenever there was somebody i liked around me, my hands would have an urge to fiddle with my tresses… Sometimes even before this person entered the room. It was just weird. My hair would also dry up and fall when i was sick, bloom when i was happy, entertain me when i was lonely, and blind me when i was not supposed to see something.

Maybe it was all in a young brain’s imagination, but it helped me cope with my life. I loved my hair, i grew them long, took care of them like nobody else could. However, this relationship was not meant to last long. When i grew older, i realized that my hair is not just “mine”. Other people like family and friends had a say on my hair. Even the society cared of how well my hair behaved. This led me to somewhat alienate my self from my hair. I still loved my hair though, but the sense of ownership and belonging was starting to dimnish. As i grew older, it got worse. I soon realized that people can touch your hair, violate it, without even asking your hair for permission. I also witnessed my mother being held from her gorgeous tresses and being thrashed and thrown to corners of the room, by my father. My mother is beautiful, she has beautiful hair. She still has long and strong hair after so many years, but i think i never saw her hair happy after that day. When i was 12 or 14, i don’t remember, but i wanted to shave my head. The alienation and hatred towards my own hair had aggravated too much to handle. I started keeping short hair, bob cuts. Sometimes i would play with scissors and just cut my hair at random places. I don’t know if my hair liked it. It was more quiet now, didn't talk much. I guess, i was thinking, that i could not let anyone else violate my hair, so i started punishing it myself. I enjoyed it, thoroughly.

When i was 17, i had started dating this boy. He liked me. He also liked my hair. But he wanted me to grow my hair. He said, that it would make him love me more. I did not understand his desire for my hair to be longer. But i let it grow long again. By the time i was 18, i had long beautiful hair. I did not love them as much as i did earlier, but we had started talking again on a regular basis. My hair knew things i did not know. My hair also brought me closer to this boy. We made love. I still remember how gently he would caress my hair, then move to my eyes, nose, lips, tongue… until he reached where i had no idea somebody would kiss me. I had known that it happened, but i had no idea that it would happen to me. My hair, in some sense, made me feel like i was a gender, a woman. It’s when i had my hair back, that i realized that hair speaks a lot to other people, even the absence of hair means something to a lot of people. But things changed again, two years into a relationship with this boy, i have an epiphany. My hair, suddenly speaks of his desires. I realize that he had taken my hair away from me, it was his belonging now. His control over my hair had given him control over my body, thoughts and behavior. My hair was tamed, and so was my breasts, my eyes,my lips, my legs, my vagina, my pubic hair, and the worst, my brain. I was angry, i could kill someone. So i killed my hair. I got what people call the “boy cut” and made it mine. I also dyed my hair blood red.
This gave me pure happiness and bliss. It somehow felt like i had regained control and reclaimed what was mine.

However, later on retrospection, wasn't it him, who drove me into killing my hair ? Was it really regaining control.. or was it a lost battle to begin with..? I still don't know.

I am 21 now. I still have a love hate relationship with my hair. My hair is long enough to touch my shoulders. Yesterday, my father caught me by my hair and threw me away like a broken toy. My hair hurts, my head hurts, my wrists ache when i type this. My heart cries.

I hate my hair. I don’t know what to do with it. It keeps getting me in trouble. I hope someday somebody can mend this relationship, and i can love my hair again, like they were really My Hair.

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