Running through a list of adjectives to describe myself, relaxed would never be one that would come to mind.
I would sooner call myself athletic, a reminder of my failed relationship with sports, than relaxed.
While being carefree and relaxed never manifested itself in a go with the flow attitude, relaxation came easier when eating cookies and donuts where impulsiveness was an enzyme for enjoyment (and cavities).
Highly strung with a devotion to academics at the tender age of 13, I took going-with-the-flow attitude and letting my hair down quite literally.
The summer before eighth grade I made the decision to cut my hair into a pixie cut. It fulfilled the short-lived goal of imitating Agyness Deyn, a model I admired since Polyvore and Tumblr opened me to a world that could be better than a 400 square foot middle school classroom.
The response of feeling freer, more like myself is a common response to the phenomenon of chopping off one's locks. But it is, nonetheless, an accurate representation of being unbound from the metaphorical chains that are one’s tresses.
The haircut was a move I had contemplated for a while, but I actually followed through during the summer so I could get used to it before school stole it's glory. It was a brief reprieve before the kids at school asked why I had cut my hair.
I loved my new haircut to the same degree that most people hate black licorice. Which is to say, a lot. I was free to indulge in the fantasy of feeling like a French gamin, all while exploring the new world of hair accessories that might actually be noticed: headbands! Fun clips!
The options to show off my lack of locks were both tantalizing and exciting. Hair accessories that never seemed desirable when I had “long” hair were suddenly appealing, the promise of new accessories were a golden nugget looming over my 13-year-old self.
When school started, the love I had for my short hair briefly fizzled out. I was met with a flurry of questions about my hair short, all of which amounted to a variation of the following: Why would you do that?
I was initially put down by the comments, questioning why I would in fact do that. The short hair exposed me, I couldn’t hide my timidity behind anything, I drew more attention to myself by being different than by just following the cool eighth grade crowd.
After some intense googling of fellow short-haired ladies and internal pep talks that went a little something like this: you do not look like a boy, my confidence in my hair slowly restored. I no longer cared to the same obnoxious degree what my classmates said about my hair because when you are a precocious eighth grader, not caring comes pretty easily.
I tousled my hair; I gave my head a wild shake.
I didn’t need to let it down, it already was. I had my hair do what I could not.
Down it goes, onto the ground.
