I did le chop. I cut off my long thick lovely hair. Me of the sleek bobs and ponytails. The me with a counter full of hair products. The me of the drawer full of tongs and flat irons. Yes - that me finally did the le big big chop. From long to nada in the time it took for the one hundred bob barber to do the job.
Before le chop, I had not been to the salon for 2 years. I just could not take the wasted time in the salon. Two to three hours every visit, getting my head fiddled. Every week. How many hours is that in a month? Eight? A whole working day? Come on. For my hair? To look the same as it did yesterday? When I could have been doing more fun and more important things with my family? Like lying on the carpet and lifting our feet in the air? Or having dance competitions? And singing concerts? And watching documentaries? Or all quietly (but fiddling) reading?
So I did my hair myself. Wash, poo, rinse, air dry, braid, loose comb out. And I would probably still be there, had not a nice solid case of something bad on my scalp. I still do not know if it was dandruff (powdery white flakes of scalp skin), scalp psoriasis (silvery-gray flakes) or seborrheic dermatitis (yellow or white flakes). I just cannot tell what the colour of the scales were. They were not powdery that is for sure. They were large. And bumpy. And clung to my scalp in patches and had to be pried up. Gently in case they came off with the skin underneath. And the patches itched. Maybe it ws seborrheic eczema? Or some fungal something?
Anyway - here came the medicated shampoos and the ointments. Which meant that the routine washing had now to be done more often. At home. By me. Tiresome.
The "dreadruffs" as I came to call them were joined with a fierce longing. I had always had long hair. And I had always told myself that I would one day have short hair. I wanted to have short hair. I needed to have short hair. In actual fact - I needed to have no hair. Not for ever, but at least for a while, just for a short while. That was and still is my ultimate goal - the Kojak look. I have yet to achieve it, but I know, that where there is razor, there is no hair, so in time that too will be.
So the ruffs and the longing culminated in le big chop. I loved it. Though my scalp was sore for a week - which I attributed to its meeting with the elements - cold, sunlight and wind? I have had three hair cuts over six months resulting in a centimeter of hair, a shadow of hair and right now a wannabe "box".
It has raised questions from those who know me and my former meticulously cared for glorious crowning glory. An ultra feminine friend of mine who is hair/braid/weave perfect, with the loveliest manicured nails asked me if I was not feeling less feminine, less womanly.
My though process was thus;
My hair did not make me female.
My hair did not birth me.
My hair did not make me a daughter.
My hair did not make me a wife.
My hair did not make me a mother.
My hair basically did not grow me into the woman I am.
How then could my hair define my muliebrity?
My hair did not make me gentle
My hair did not make me delicate
My hair did not make me tender
My hair did not lend me grace
My hair did not make me modest
My hair did not make me refined
How then could my hair define my femininity?
Chromosomes and hormones? Soul and psyche? My being female was nature. I paraphrase a friend who gets me. When I was formed, she says, in this my likeness, it was without weaves and nails. It is sad she adds, how as humans we so often use the external to define who we are. That said, she concludes, that there is nothing wrong with weaves et al, but surely it can't be your definition of who we are.
Sleek chic vs coarse and kinky vs non at all, hair does not a woman make. I think my core, who I am, the essence of my being, comes from within and not from without.
Phenomenal Woman, Maya Angelou
Pretty
women wonder where my secret lies.
I'm not
cute or built to suit a fashion model's size
But when
I start to tell them,
They
think I'm telling lies.
I say,
It's in
the reach of my arms
The span
of my hips,
The
stride of my step,
The curl
of my lips.
I'm a
woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal
woman,
That's
me.
I walk
into a room
Just as
cool as you please,
And to a
man,
The
fellows stand or
Fall down
on their knees.
Then they
swarm around me,
A hive of
honey bees.
I say,
It's the
fire in my eyes,
And the
flash of my teeth,
The swing
in my waist,
And the
joy in my feet.
I'm a
woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal
woman,
That's
me.
Men
themselves have wondered
What they
see in me.
They try
so much
But they
can't touch
My inner
mystery.
When I
try to show them
They say
they still can't see.
I say,
It's in
the arch of my back,
The sun
of my smile,
The ride
of my breasts,
The grace
of my style.
I'm a
woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal
woman,
That's
me.
Now you
understand
Just why
my head's not bowed.
I don't
shout or jump about
Or have
to talk real loud.
When you
see me passing
It ought
to make you proud.
I say,
It's in
the click of my heels,
The bend
of my hair,
the palm
of my hand,
The need
of my care,
'Cause
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal
woman,
That's
me.
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