My second attempt
My parents tell me, and the pictures back up their story, that on the first day of kindergarten I got on the bus in the morning with long hair and got off the bus in the afternoon crying. Citing my new classmates’ criticism - which is nice term for it - I demanded that it be cut to spare me from more incessant teasing from my new “friends.” It would take years until I worked up the courage to return to my natural state of hair.
Apparently there was no permanent emotional scarring from this, because the last time I have cut my hair was the year two thousand and two. People have a natural tendency to link my locks with destroying the establishment and drugs. The first is not on my “to do” list and even my own mother is sometimes surprised that I have never dabbled in the second. Now, instead of laughing at me, people come up to me and ask “Why is your hair so long? What are you supporting?" and I cannot make them understand that I have no political motivation.
In truth, it has become a means of expression, a way for me to say, “This is James Kennedy.” In fact, it is the best way, as it has grown into something that is irrevocably tied to people’s images of me. Some people wear distinctive clothing, or sing lyrics they have written to share their feelings, or display paintings upon which they have painted their image of who they are. I do other things that convey my individuality, but I find that the hair is the one that people notice the most, probably because we cannot be physically separated. There is no mistaking me now, for other kids with hair to rival mine have been dropping like flies starting in tenth grade.
I will admit that I have watched my comrades fall to the empire of short hair I have been tempted, especially during the hot summer months, to face the scissors, but I always talked myself out of it, and eventually I realized why; the last time I had trimmed my hair had been the summer before commencing high school, which means that for the last four years of my life, my hair has been a constant: a witness to all of the many changes I have felt myself undergo. At night after a stressful day, I can run my hand through it and know that it has survived the metamorphosis, which means that I have too.
And yet I feel like the time is approaching for it to go. It is not that I have grew out of growing out my hair, it is just that I feel the time has come to move on, and it coincides with my entry into the next phase of my life. It will be a symbol of my moving forward. I’m surprised at how excited I am; I just hope that it is not too cold.