I got my haircut this weekend. I had been toying with the idea for a while now. My son mentioned that he wanted to get his hair trimmed, so we started talking about it. My hair had gotten quite long; it had been over two years since I last cut it. It was two years before that when I cut it previously. Before that, I just don’t even remember. My son had two people that he liked to go see. They are friends and do hair for a living. I am all about supporting people I know, even if it is only through someone I know and trust, in their business endeavors. I gave him the go-ahead to try and schedule appointments for us. We both have crazy schedules, and I seem to have a fear of haircuts. I figured it would take some time to find a time that worked. It took a day, and the appointment was set for the same week.

The last time I got my hair cut wasn’t from anything remarkable. I just figured that it had gotten long enough to donate, and there was someone out there who could benefit from it more than me. The time before that was a different story. The time before that was triggered by sadness. Someone I knew and admired had finally succumbed to the cancer that defied all medical intervention. My grief needed an outlet. I needed something tangible to help someone when I felt so helpless to help the family left behind. So, I gave up something I spent my whole life fighting to have, and I donated my hair.

My hair. Growing up I had always been denied the right, the ability, to grow it long. I had been teased and tormented about how unacceptable it was long. I think this was just another way I could be made to feel second class. Short and permed, I was teased, called “Little Orphan Annie.” My ethnic heritage is Scotch Irish and Dutch Puerto Rican. I was teased about the part of me that was mixed. My hair was just the tip of the torment I endured. I was told, “You don’t have the type of hair that can be worn long.” My type had to be short. Haircuts were always a traumatic affair. A reminder that nothing I did would ever make me good enough.

I survived my childhood. I turned 18 three weeks before graduation. My grandparents traveled across the country for my graduation. I moved out the day after they left. I moved out in the rain. The rain didn’t matter - what mattered was my freedom. I didn’t cut my hair again for five years. I grew my hair long, and it was great. It was only extreme heat, and probably a little postpartum depression that led me to finally cut it. I cut it myself one day with my sewing scissors. Then I let it grow once again.

Along the way, I have cut it out of desperation, when the split ends were so bad it looked horrible. Or when it was so hot, and I got heat rashes from putting it up in a ponytail. But every time has been traumatic. Until this time. Sitting there with my son, I finally felt good enough. I finally felt free. My son paid for my haircut - it was his gift to me with his tip money. He wanted me to be happy. I realized something. I finally am happy. The voices in my head have finally been silenced, and I can finally be me.

I got my haircut this weekend. But more than that, I am finally free.