smahan
September 29th, 2010, 05:18 PM
The Haircut
For many, spontaneous do-it-yourself haircuts at two in the morning are the result of binge drinking, a mental breakdown, or boldly done in the name of a dare. Sometimes, a combination of the three. For Rachel, this alteration was more sober than drunk, an act of liberation than an act of insanity, and completely at her own free will. And it had happened more than once. For the past two years or so, Rachel’s haircuts weren’t jotted down on the Picasso calendar in her apartment, date and time written sloppily in blue ink. They weren’t planned in any sense, just at the oncoming of an urge for a trim (and most always that urge came after midnight) she’d search for the sharp orange scissors she kept in the sewing kit she never used.
Rachel wasn’t sure what she sought on this particular night, staring past her bedroom mirror, and through the brick walls of her Brooklyn apartment. She admired the symmetry of her makeup-less face, and removed her hair elastic, freeing the messy bun on top of her head. Waves of golden brown hair spilled midway down her back, messy and thick. She loved her hair, an extension of her personality--carefree, natural, a little crazy, and a bit frenzied. Ask her four hours ago and she would’ve said she never wanted to cut her hair; that she wouldn’t cut it until the end of summer. When she showered the next morning she’d regret her late night decision, as she tried to shampoo ends that just weren’t there. But she moved on impulse, gathering her hair to a low ponytail and abruptly cutting off the ends.
Maybe it was the string of recent bad hair days, leading her to believe a haircut would be a fresh change. Maybe it was her sexual frustration, the scissors an outlet for her insatiable void. Or maybe it was simply that she wanted to rid herself of ratty dead ends. Either way, she chopped up into the hair, little snippets creating uneven, asymmetrical ends--ends that made her smile when she thought of their resistance to conformity, ends that made her WASP-y mother cringe. Ends imperfect like her.
Only two inches fell bittersweet casualties. Running her hands through the choppy layers and tapered ends, there was a feeling much akin to that of the moments after a spring sun shower. It was almost as if she were looking forward to the anticipation of growth, the day when her hair would be happily back to the length it had been just minutes ago. Anticipation tinged with regret for that week or so of awkwardness after a haircut. That initial week when Rachel knew she wouldn’t be able to roll out of bed, satisfied with her hair loose and free. Knew she’d miss those two inches. Knew she’d wonder why she cut her already beautiful hair in the first place.
Under the philosophy that there is a reason for everything, the haircut’s reason was unidentifiable. It was propelled by everything—that last phone call she had mustered the courage to hang up on, the ugly boy she slept with just for the sake of surface level sex, the pollen pond spring swims, body image rollercoaster, and recent, relative sobriety. Each time she cut her hair for different reasons, each time offering, forcing, a reason to analyze herself and her current situation.
Rachel picked up her hair elastic, twisting her hair into a messy bun once again, and crawled into her cool, fluffy bed, lulling off into a restful sleep.
For many, spontaneous do-it-yourself haircuts at two in the morning are the result of binge drinking, a mental breakdown, or boldly done in the name of a dare. Sometimes, a combination of the three. For Rachel, this alteration was more sober than drunk, an act of liberation than an act of insanity, and completely at her own free will. And it had happened more than once. For the past two years or so, Rachel’s haircuts weren’t jotted down on the Picasso calendar in her apartment, date and time written sloppily in blue ink. They weren’t planned in any sense, just at the oncoming of an urge for a trim (and most always that urge came after midnight) she’d search for the sharp orange scissors she kept in the sewing kit she never used.
Rachel wasn’t sure what she sought on this particular night, staring past her bedroom mirror, and through the brick walls of her Brooklyn apartment. She admired the symmetry of her makeup-less face, and removed her hair elastic, freeing the messy bun on top of her head. Waves of golden brown hair spilled midway down her back, messy and thick. She loved her hair, an extension of her personality--carefree, natural, a little crazy, and a bit frenzied. Ask her four hours ago and she would’ve said she never wanted to cut her hair; that she wouldn’t cut it until the end of summer. When she showered the next morning she’d regret her late night decision, as she tried to shampoo ends that just weren’t there. But she moved on impulse, gathering her hair to a low ponytail and abruptly cutting off the ends.
Maybe it was the string of recent bad hair days, leading her to believe a haircut would be a fresh change. Maybe it was her sexual frustration, the scissors an outlet for her insatiable void. Or maybe it was simply that she wanted to rid herself of ratty dead ends. Either way, she chopped up into the hair, little snippets creating uneven, asymmetrical ends--ends that made her smile when she thought of their resistance to conformity, ends that made her WASP-y mother cringe. Ends imperfect like her.
Only two inches fell bittersweet casualties. Running her hands through the choppy layers and tapered ends, there was a feeling much akin to that of the moments after a spring sun shower. It was almost as if she were looking forward to the anticipation of growth, the day when her hair would be happily back to the length it had been just minutes ago. Anticipation tinged with regret for that week or so of awkwardness after a haircut. That initial week when Rachel knew she wouldn’t be able to roll out of bed, satisfied with her hair loose and free. Knew she’d miss those two inches. Knew she’d wonder why she cut her already beautiful hair in the first place.
Under the philosophy that there is a reason for everything, the haircut’s reason was unidentifiable. It was propelled by everything—that last phone call she had mustered the courage to hang up on, the ugly boy she slept with just for the sake of surface level sex, the pollen pond spring swims, body image rollercoaster, and recent, relative sobriety. Each time she cut her hair for different reasons, each time offering, forcing, a reason to analyze herself and her current situation.
Rachel picked up her hair elastic, twisting her hair into a messy bun once again, and crawled into her cool, fluffy bed, lulling off into a restful sleep.