Hair

 I wish I could explain why my hair is so important to me. But I can’t. Or at least I don’t think that I can, so instead I will try and share my history of hair with you. 

When I was a child, my dad associated me being a girl with having long hair, like really really long hair. So much so that he never wanted me to get it cut. So when I was 5 and my mom felt it was too much to have a kindergartner with butt length hair, she got my hair cut without his permission and he wasn’t happy. That’s the first memory I have of my hair meaning something. 

When I was in third grade, my mom was a manager at a restaurant and she didn’t get home until 3 in the morning. My dad managed a Standard Brands (anyone remember those?) so he left before I woke up for school, leaving me to get myself ready in the mornings. Literally, I got myself up with an alarm clock, showered, ate breakfast, got dressed, and did my hair all on my own. (Where a lot of my need to be an ever present parent comes from,) I had a friend who would walk to my house, and together we would walk to another friend’s house, where her dad gave us a ride to school. One day we showed up and her dad had a convertible to drive us to school in. Wanting to be cool and girly I got in the back seat and giggled with my friends about how I hoped my hair wouldn’t get messed up, when one of those girls looked at me and told me that I had nothing to worry about because my hair was always messed up anyway. This was the first time someone hurt my feelings over my appearance, and the first time I realized my hair was being judged. From that point forward i pulled my hair into a pony tail everyday so that it wasn’t down and looking messy. 

In seventh grade my mom and aunts convinced me to let them dye my hair. My hair naturally is a dark blonde, but they wanted to lighten it, and I got addicted to it. Towards the end of the school year they dragged me to get it all chopped off in my first ever super short hair cut. I cried, but then loved it afterwards. I was really excited to go to school the next day and was on a high when the popular girls kept complementing me in journalism class. That was short lived when one of them quipped that it was "too bad I didn’t have the clothes to match my model-esque hair cut." I cried all night long after that statement. This was the first time I realized hair needed to match clothes, and makeup. I worked all summer long baby sitting my cousins so I could have my own money to make sure that I got clothes that weren’t so cheap. 

Eighth grade I was more popular, especially with boys, and the girls didn’t like me for it. So much so that they quickly made up a rumor that along with my short hair, I was a lesbian. It didn’t matter that I had a boyfriend, he dumped me 3 days later and I spent the rest of the school year fighting my mom to let my hair grow out, and getting in fights. This was the first time I was ever suicidal in my life. She wouldn’t let me grow it out because the process of growing it out is ugly, and this made me ugly. Summer I grew it out enough that I could a cuter cut that would allow it to grow out cuter. I learned that you need to own your hair and be confident in it. 

We moved and in ninth grade I got my hair long again, and blonder and blonder. This continued into Junior year of high school until I decided I wanted to cut it short, into what is known as the pixie cut. I thought it looked like a surfer dudes hair cut on me, so I dyed my hair black. And it stayed the same length and color with varying styles until I was 21 years old and decided I wanted to marry Scott and start growing out. In those years I built myself into a version of me that I loved, and still love, and it was my trademark for what seems to be forever. Scott loves that version of me, and when he thinks of me, thats the hair cut and color he always goes back to. 

When I finally changed, I dyed it a natural red, and embraced a straightener. And bobby pins, and literally had to learn how to style my hair, because I spent so much time with short hair, or pulling my long hair up. I was completely enthralled with it, and absolutely loved being a red head in my wedding dress. But after Salem was born I had a sever identity crisis and realized that even though I couldn’t change my body over night, I could change my hair, and for the last 6 years my hair roller coasters every time my mood requires a change. It redefines my confidence and reminds me who I am. 

With that being said, I have an appointment at 6 tonight to get my hair done, so when Scott gets home, I’m leaving the kids with him and going off to change my mood into something red hot.