Keratin Chronicles: If that Hair Could Talk
I've just been shorn. Almost all of my hair was cut and donated on Wednesday. Between the proud length I had accomplished, and the exasperation of managing this abundant mane, I had come to feel the hair was no longer mine. It was time to harvest the crop for its intended purpose: to make a wig for hairless children through Locks of Love.
As the hairdresser inserted the severed ponytail into a plastic bag for shipping, I skimmed the coiled sandy-wheat strands and thought, "if that hair could talk". Like rings on a tree, each inch, each variation in tint, told its story.
Over the last 8 years it took me to grow that hair:
2003
I learned to french braid my own hair as it finally grew long enough to work with. I found this very handy for gymnastics and running, as it required no restyling after the activity ended. Even more exciting: it crimped my hair. How apt that, during this time, I also experienced diet and exercise in bouts of tightly wound discipline, only to relax in a crooked mess of limitless indulgence. This style dominated most of my freshman year of college.
2004
The barometric fluctuations of dry heat and flash floods in the Dominican Republic, combined with infrequent showers and ineffective rinsing, made the strands of my hair bundle together. The outermost hairs were burned and weakened, while those protected beneath stayed dark and strong. The entity producing this hair also experienced flash fluctuations between glowing hope and heavy despair. The result: natural streaks, branding me for the next 7 years.
2005
I returned from Spain with hair bleached, wind-torn, and sea salted by a year of Mediterranean sun. Teenage Spaniards ran their fingers through its foreign, fine texture. They smelled the aromatics of my almond shampoo, and promptly bought their own bottles.
2006
To heal my hip stress fracture, I stuck to a dedicated bone-strengthening supplement regimen that probably also strengthened my hair as a side benefit.
I hadn't trimmed my hair the entire year I spent abroad. It was a symbol of my dedication to Joel: haircuts, like romance, could wait until my return. It reached my shoulder blades by now. To mark my return, I trimmed it to my clavicles. This may have been a mistake - I instantly fell out of Joel's good graces the very same day.
2007
Continuing my trend from Spain, I wore the keffiyeh (scarf) that Antonio gave me. I used it to a) keep warm, and b) cover oily, unwashed hair. I had learned to avoid bathing; especially in the winter, when air-drying my hair in the rainy season meant I was doomed to be cold for a day or longer.
I moved into my own apartment, where the water bill and frigid indoor temperature further reduced my incentive to shower. But thanks to my supplements, the less I showered, the more
I smelled like maple syrup.
2008
I met Jim. He didn't seem to care for the length of my hair, which caught me by surprise. I proudly took it down as I neared him, letting it fall around my shoulders. As he pulled me closer, he folded it back up. It was practical, really - long hair can entangle and suffocate quite easily, like an octopus in a horror movie. Only, unlike tentacles, you can find traces coiled around the most unsuspecting personal places long after the attack.
This year I left traces on two victims simultaneously.
My body was flushed with the familiar hormone, cortisol, weakening me. Yet I was strengthened with unfamiliar hormones, known by some to alter curly hair into straight. This did not happen to me. Rather, I was compelled to make life-changing decisions. Based on a new perspective of what is helpful and harmful to a nurturing environment, I operated under an instinctual drive to consider "necessity" on a whole new level. An unprecedented surge of power was required to make these decisions. I couldn't have done it alone. And I didn't.
I went to Japan. I used ribbons, a barrette of abalone, and hair chopsticks to pull my hair away from my sweaty neck. My dad, sister, and I were easily exhausted after walking miles in the heat and humidity - each for our own separate reasons. I made an effort to bathe frequently and mind my manners so as not to reinforce the stereotype of a stinky, unruly gaijin. My hair benefited from some of the most exotic raw materials I've ever consumed. It was also steeped in the healing natural spring waters. It was a very healthful, educational, and adventurous vacation. I was glad to share it with the newest member of my family - we were off to a good start.
Then it was time say goodbye.
This was the hardest year of my life.
2009
By now my hair had grown accustomed to the morning and evening ritual of being tucked into a helmet. The roots were steamed beneath a fleece cap, while the tips were chilled by rain and wind on my back. This was my daily bike ride. I visited the campus salon, where unpracticed students took extra long to trim the split ends. Twice the length of pampering and half the cost - I loved it. They commented that my hair was in good shape; I didn't over-condition, nor did I dry the hair out. I guess that resulted from infrequent washing, battery, and neglect.
Rizbit died, and the scent of my hair lost the influence of animal bedding for a month. However, that was soon reinstated by two new guinea pigs.
Grains of soil hid in my hair after Jim and I did "yardening" together in the warmer months.
2010
We lived in three houses this year. Every time we moved, I dragged my hair through some variety of dust, rat poop, cobwebs, splinters and asbestos.
We took a vacation to Arizona - my second home. Finally, the length of time required for my hair to dry came in handy: it kept me cool longer than anyone else. It dried soon enough, though. Even hair as long as mine was no match for the dry, desert heat.
I remember my mom always found the smell of my hair to be precious. Jim smelled my hair and was able to deduce my activities the last 3 days without bathing: shampoo, pho, fish stew, visiting smokers, and playing outside.
2011
The present. At 26 years old, I have attained the quality of life expected at my favorite number. It is twice 13: the best age of my life.
My hair was finally the length of Lara Croft's. I wore it in a braid, like her. I had done splits, acrobatics, and parkour on landmarks of the 12 countries I've visited. I've experienced skiing, white water rafting, climbing/rappelling, caving, snorkeling, kayaking, shooting, horse-riding, off-trail hiking, camping, surfing, wind-surfing (and of course, running and bicycling regularly). Inspired by her bravery, I eventually emerged from chaos with my head held high.
I feel satisfied with my ability to make myself. Since 13, I had visions of what I wanted to become. This is pretty much the realization: thanks to the job I learn from and love, I am able to take college classes for next-to-free. I can also afford to buy the natural groceries that keep my household a little less toxic. I use these to make most of our meals from scratch; a time-consuming but rewarding habit. I still don't own a car, forcing my exercise to stay high and my expenses to stay low. I own my house, allowing me to make changes to the structure and yard to my satisfaction.
We've adopted a cat to join our family. He signaled it was time to get a haircut when he attacked my hair during the dreaded 10-minute brushing ritual. I welcomed the advice. My hair had gotten to be a burden. I couldn't turn my head at night without picking up my hair and rearranging it so that it wouldn't cover my face or neck. Washing it, brushing it, drying it took so much time (and arm strength). It was embarrassing to wear it down. With so much effort required to maintain hair that long, it usually means the wearer is trying to make a statement with it: "the end of the world is upon us," "I don't vote and neither should you," "grooming is for snobs," "I avoid going outside when at all possible."
So, at my sister's referral, I went to Seven downtown, where they cut your hair free of charge if you donate to Locks of Love. They offered endless espresso and tea, had a live DJ, and even spa robes. I felt so out of place, but very pampered nonetheless.
The result: a variation on the same haircut I had when I was 16.
The end of one saga signals the beginning of a new one. Stay tuned for the next segment of Keratin Chronicles (in about 5 years). As they say in cinema, and as I will say for hair growth, "let's start from the top." Here we go again.
Let the storm take you in.
You know it won't hurt you if you go willingly.
Let the wind decide what is best for you.
Your next step forward will be perfectly planned; even if not by you.
As the hairdresser inserted the severed ponytail into a plastic bag for shipping, I skimmed the coiled sandy-wheat strands and thought, "if that hair could talk". Like rings on a tree, each inch, each variation in tint, told its story.
Over the last 8 years it took me to grow that hair:
2003
I learned to french braid my own hair as it finally grew long enough to work with. I found this very handy for gymnastics and running, as it required no restyling after the activity ended. Even more exciting: it crimped my hair. How apt that, during this time, I also experienced diet and exercise in bouts of tightly wound discipline, only to relax in a crooked mess of limitless indulgence. This style dominated most of my freshman year of college.
2004
The barometric fluctuations of dry heat and flash floods in the Dominican Republic, combined with infrequent showers and ineffective rinsing, made the strands of my hair bundle together. The outermost hairs were burned and weakened, while those protected beneath stayed dark and strong. The entity producing this hair also experienced flash fluctuations between glowing hope and heavy despair. The result: natural streaks, branding me for the next 7 years.
2005
I returned from Spain with hair bleached, wind-torn, and sea salted by a year of Mediterranean sun. Teenage Spaniards ran their fingers through its foreign, fine texture. They smelled the aromatics of my almond shampoo, and promptly bought their own bottles.
2006
To heal my hip stress fracture, I stuck to a dedicated bone-strengthening supplement regimen that probably also strengthened my hair as a side benefit.
I hadn't trimmed my hair the entire year I spent abroad. It was a symbol of my dedication to Joel: haircuts, like romance, could wait until my return. It reached my shoulder blades by now. To mark my return, I trimmed it to my clavicles. This may have been a mistake - I instantly fell out of Joel's good graces the very same day.
2007
Continuing my trend from Spain, I wore the keffiyeh (scarf) that Antonio gave me. I used it to a) keep warm, and b) cover oily, unwashed hair. I had learned to avoid bathing; especially in the winter, when air-drying my hair in the rainy season meant I was doomed to be cold for a day or longer.
I moved into my own apartment, where the water bill and frigid indoor temperature further reduced my incentive to shower. But thanks to my supplements, the less I showered, the more
I smelled like maple syrup.
2008
I met Jim. He didn't seem to care for the length of my hair, which caught me by surprise. I proudly took it down as I neared him, letting it fall around my shoulders. As he pulled me closer, he folded it back up. It was practical, really - long hair can entangle and suffocate quite easily, like an octopus in a horror movie. Only, unlike tentacles, you can find traces coiled around the most unsuspecting personal places long after the attack.
This year I left traces on two victims simultaneously.
My body was flushed with the familiar hormone, cortisol, weakening me. Yet I was strengthened with unfamiliar hormones, known by some to alter curly hair into straight. This did not happen to me. Rather, I was compelled to make life-changing decisions. Based on a new perspective of what is helpful and harmful to a nurturing environment, I operated under an instinctual drive to consider "necessity" on a whole new level. An unprecedented surge of power was required to make these decisions. I couldn't have done it alone. And I didn't.
I went to Japan. I used ribbons, a barrette of abalone, and hair chopsticks to pull my hair away from my sweaty neck. My dad, sister, and I were easily exhausted after walking miles in the heat and humidity - each for our own separate reasons. I made an effort to bathe frequently and mind my manners so as not to reinforce the stereotype of a stinky, unruly gaijin. My hair benefited from some of the most exotic raw materials I've ever consumed. It was also steeped in the healing natural spring waters. It was a very healthful, educational, and adventurous vacation. I was glad to share it with the newest member of my family - we were off to a good start.
Then it was time say goodbye.
This was the hardest year of my life.
2009
By now my hair had grown accustomed to the morning and evening ritual of being tucked into a helmet. The roots were steamed beneath a fleece cap, while the tips were chilled by rain and wind on my back. This was my daily bike ride. I visited the campus salon, where unpracticed students took extra long to trim the split ends. Twice the length of pampering and half the cost - I loved it. They commented that my hair was in good shape; I didn't over-condition, nor did I dry the hair out. I guess that resulted from infrequent washing, battery, and neglect.
Rizbit died, and the scent of my hair lost the influence of animal bedding for a month. However, that was soon reinstated by two new guinea pigs.
Grains of soil hid in my hair after Jim and I did "yardening" together in the warmer months.
2010
We lived in three houses this year. Every time we moved, I dragged my hair through some variety of dust, rat poop, cobwebs, splinters and asbestos.
We took a vacation to Arizona - my second home. Finally, the length of time required for my hair to dry came in handy: it kept me cool longer than anyone else. It dried soon enough, though. Even hair as long as mine was no match for the dry, desert heat.
I remember my mom always found the smell of my hair to be precious. Jim smelled my hair and was able to deduce my activities the last 3 days without bathing: shampoo, pho, fish stew, visiting smokers, and playing outside.
2011
The present. At 26 years old, I have attained the quality of life expected at my favorite number. It is twice 13: the best age of my life.
My hair was finally the length of Lara Croft's. I wore it in a braid, like her. I had done splits, acrobatics, and parkour on landmarks of the 12 countries I've visited. I've experienced skiing, white water rafting, climbing/rappelling, caving, snorkeling, kayaking, shooting, horse-riding, off-trail hiking, camping, surfing, wind-surfing (and of course, running and bicycling regularly). Inspired by her bravery, I eventually emerged from chaos with my head held high.
I feel satisfied with my ability to make myself. Since 13, I had visions of what I wanted to become. This is pretty much the realization: thanks to the job I learn from and love, I am able to take college classes for next-to-free. I can also afford to buy the natural groceries that keep my household a little less toxic. I use these to make most of our meals from scratch; a time-consuming but rewarding habit. I still don't own a car, forcing my exercise to stay high and my expenses to stay low. I own my house, allowing me to make changes to the structure and yard to my satisfaction.
We've adopted a cat to join our family. He signaled it was time to get a haircut when he attacked my hair during the dreaded 10-minute brushing ritual. I welcomed the advice. My hair had gotten to be a burden. I couldn't turn my head at night without picking up my hair and rearranging it so that it wouldn't cover my face or neck. Washing it, brushing it, drying it took so much time (and arm strength). It was embarrassing to wear it down. With so much effort required to maintain hair that long, it usually means the wearer is trying to make a statement with it: "the end of the world is upon us," "I don't vote and neither should you," "grooming is for snobs," "I avoid going outside when at all possible."
So, at my sister's referral, I went to Seven downtown, where they cut your hair free of charge if you donate to Locks of Love. They offered endless espresso and tea, had a live DJ, and even spa robes. I felt so out of place, but very pampered nonetheless.
The result: a variation on the same haircut I had when I was 16.
The end of one saga signals the beginning of a new one. Stay tuned for the next segment of Keratin Chronicles (in about 5 years). As they say in cinema, and as I will say for hair growth, "let's start from the top." Here we go again.
Let the storm take you in.
You know it won't hurt you if you go willingly.
Let the wind decide what is best for you.
Your next step forward will be perfectly planned; even if not by you.