a hairstory lesson
A wise woman--India.Arie, to be exact--once said that "I am not my hair." But after a week home, I'm not so sure.
So here's the (hair)story: two months ago to the day, I chopped off about five inches about my hair. I didn't write about it extensively on here, partly because it was school and I was Stressed. Out. and partly because, ya know, I was Processing. I was pretty sure I didn't want long hair any more, partly for the aches and pains of having it (aka "Ponytail Syndrome" in all its gory glory) and partly because I looked so damned good-girl straight. (I still do, probably, that's besides that point.)
After I cut it off, I got lots of "so cute!"'s from my classmates and peers at school. I think at least five people commented that it was "perfect for the springtime!" That was the end of the discussion, basically. (Barring a particularly discerning observer who said I looked like a Republican... hot?)
Anyway, fast-forward two months. My new 'do "came out" to my parents and my employers. And to most people back home. Except that... half of the people back home don't seem to recognize me. Seriously! It's like I'm wearing this strange mask, or something, that I can't take off. I often want to jump up and down and say, "PEOPLE! IT'S ME, BETH! REMEMBER!?"
I mean, it's not a huge deal-- these are not my close friends, loved ones, bonded kin, or biffles of days gone by. These are the people who I used to babysit for, be a camp counselor for, or saw while life-guarding. Or my old rabbi, or the woman who daughter I was friends with... all of these people have failed to recognize me in the last week.
Do I really look so different? Maybe. Perhaps it's a telling mark of how much hair does, indeed, impact our appearance. When I got off the plane and my dad saw my new hair, I explained that it was, at least, less dramatic than say, "piercing my eyebrow!" or "getting a tattoo!" Instead, I had chosen the more "responsible" and "grown-up" rebel move: chopping off my 'locks was "bad-girl" but not "badly-paid girl."
Yet, now that I'm home and not being recognized, I've reconsidered. All of my photos from my K-12 grades show the same girl with this loooong, dirty-blond hair. I mean, yeah, it's varied a tad in length-- in middle-school, it's shorter, in high-school, in starts out olong, gets a little shorter, then longer again-- but mostly all with the same theme: HAIR. Lots of it.
So do I blame these people who ignore my hopeful stares in their direction? My longing looks of recognition? Not entirely. Hair, it turns out, does have a role in our appearances. And hopefully, if I had mustered up the courage to, you know, actually talk to these people, I would have gotten a little "oh!" and we'd be back to the good ol' days of long-haired recognition. And, I think, this, in the end, is the long and short (hair) of it.
So here's the (hair)story: two months ago to the day, I chopped off about five inches about my hair. I didn't write about it extensively on here, partly because it was school and I was Stressed. Out. and partly because, ya know, I was Processing. I was pretty sure I didn't want long hair any more, partly for the aches and pains of having it (aka "Ponytail Syndrome" in all its gory glory) and partly because I looked so damned good-girl straight. (I still do, probably, that's besides that point.)
After I cut it off, I got lots of "so cute!"'s from my classmates and peers at school. I think at least five people commented that it was "perfect for the springtime!" That was the end of the discussion, basically. (Barring a particularly discerning observer who said I looked like a Republican... hot?)
Anyway, fast-forward two months. My new 'do "came out" to my parents and my employers. And to most people back home. Except that... half of the people back home don't seem to recognize me. Seriously! It's like I'm wearing this strange mask, or something, that I can't take off. I often want to jump up and down and say, "PEOPLE! IT'S ME, BETH! REMEMBER!?"
I mean, it's not a huge deal-- these are not my close friends, loved ones, bonded kin, or biffles of days gone by. These are the people who I used to babysit for, be a camp counselor for, or saw while life-guarding. Or my old rabbi, or the woman who daughter I was friends with... all of these people have failed to recognize me in the last week.
Do I really look so different? Maybe. Perhaps it's a telling mark of how much hair does, indeed, impact our appearance. When I got off the plane and my dad saw my new hair, I explained that it was, at least, less dramatic than say, "piercing my eyebrow!" or "getting a tattoo!" Instead, I had chosen the more "responsible" and "grown-up" rebel move: chopping off my 'locks was "bad-girl" but not "badly-paid girl."
Yet, now that I'm home and not being recognized, I've reconsidered. All of my photos from my K-12 grades show the same girl with this loooong, dirty-blond hair. I mean, yeah, it's varied a tad in length-- in middle-school, it's shorter, in high-school, in starts out olong, gets a little shorter, then longer again-- but mostly all with the same theme: HAIR. Lots of it.
So do I blame these people who ignore my hopeful stares in their direction? My longing looks of recognition? Not entirely. Hair, it turns out, does have a role in our appearances. And hopefully, if I had mustered up the courage to, you know, actually talk to these people, I would have gotten a little "oh!" and we'd be back to the good ol' days of long-haired recognition. And, I think, this, in the end, is the long and short (hair) of it.