As a woman, you never realize how important your hair is to you until it’s gone. You think things like, “it’s so annoying,” or “this takes too much time to blow dry,” but it never really occurs to you that without your hair, you would look like a totally different person.
I never fully comprehended the impact of hair until I stood behind my mother and helped her shave hers off. A few treatments into chemotherapy, her fiery, red locks were falling out in chunks. She took charge of the situation and one day, handed me the buzz cutter, unable to get rid of what was left herself.
In 2008, my mother the cosmetologist, stared at her own bald reflection. The irony of the situation hadn’t escaped me. Back then I had been numb to what was happening. I was 13 years old, and unsure of how to handle the the realities of a harsh world I hadn't known before. Breast cancer was a loaded term, associated with fear, and sometimes death. That much I knew.
Years passed, treatments came to an end. Hospital visits became less frequent.
My mother’s hair grew back, curly and full. She let it get so long that it reached her waist.
After the day I shaved my mothers head, I immediately began to grow out my own hair. It became my personal mission to donate as much hair as I could to any woman or child who needed my hair more than I did.
It took me many years to grow out my hair, but when the day came to donate it, I knew. I sat down in the same chair my mother had years before, and asked her to cut off all that she could. I could tell it was hard for her, and she asked me may times if I was sure. I had been sure all along.
With a flick of the wrist, and some hesitation in her eyes, she pulled my silky long hair into a thin pony tail and let it hang behind the hair chair, scissors in hand.
“You sure?” My mother squeaked, a little pained.
I grinned and nodded, scared but excited.
“Okay…”
A snip later and some hesitant struggling, there it went, to the floor.
In the days following, I got so many different responses. There were people telling me how proud they were of me, how cute they thought my hair cut was, and how brave I was to part with 12 plus inches in the hopes of helping someone who needed it more.
Then there were the people who told me, “I was so much prettier before,” or “why the Hell would you do that?”
To those people, I have to say, that hair is hair and it grows back, but for many people it doesn’t. To many individuals, hair is like a shield from the world. It protects us, it is a part of us and it is often times something convenient for us to hide behind. I have the ability to grow my curtain long, and hide from the world if I want to, but there are so many people out there, like my mother, who had to suffer through a period of time (short or long) where they didn't have that extra comfort. That identifier that was part of who they were.
Cutting my hair off was one of the most liberating and intimidating experiences of my life. I intend to repeat the process as many times as I can.
If you’re looking for somewhere to donate your own luscious locks, please visit Wigs 4 Kids, Children with Hair Loss, or Locks of Love.
