This is the story of cutting my hair.
I agonized over this decision for weeks. Since May, Votrient had made my hair grow in with a lack of pigment, and that meant that it wouldn’t take any dye (I tried.) It felt sad and limiting to cover my hair up all the time with the same two headbands that were comfortable enough and felt fashionable. My scalp began to hurt more and more. The initial sting of my realization had settled into a dull ache, one I was reminded of each morning as I got ready for my day. Why was this sitting so heavy on me? What was the real issue here?
I sat down to journal and get to the bottom of it.
Here’s what I found: I was afraid simply because it was something I’d never done before, and I had few examples of what that would look or feel like. And beneath that, I was tired of needing to be brave all the time and constantly fighting to meet other people’s expectations.
The words that came to me (truly, that sounds like something out of the Old Testament, but it’s the only way I can describe it) were these: you don’t have to be brave enough for all of it. You just have to be brave enough to do this one thing. The rest can wait.
I knew I was brave enough for this.
I picked the night of the full moon at the beginning of August, since it traditionally represents letting go. I watched Sweeney Todd the night before for a bit of wry humor. I put a few woo-woo earthy items in the beautiful wooden bowl a friend made me: safe, aquamarine, obsidian, and cowry shells. All these were suggested in an episode of Queer Eye when a man was shaving his dreads. (And if it’s good enough for JVN, it’s good enough for me.) My friends Dominique and Dave sent me a pair of clippers from amazon, which I affectionately named Greased Lightning due to the lightning print on the side. I called my friend Alex for moral support. I sectioned my hair into ponytails. When it came time to the cutting itself, I put on Aretha Franklin and got to work. After the first few big cuts, it became easier. That night, I enjoyed the summer rain on my newly short, 7/8 of an inch hair.
It’s important to acknowledge how lucky I was to make a choice. Most people with cancer don’t. It just starts falling out and then it’s time, or to save the grief later they shave it off before it gets there.
And the story continues. Since I’ve been off of Votrient for my sky-high liver enzymes, my hair has started to grow back my natural color. (Dark brown: which many of you, readers, having seen me grow up, probably already knew!) I’m starting to look like I have weird early 2000’s frosted tips. But I would make this decision again every day of the week and twice on Sunday. That day, I took back my control. I’m reminding myself daily that femininity does not depend on long hair. I’m playing with new hair accessories and enjoying a short prep time in the mornings. I’m feeling like more of a badass, if you’re looking for honesty.
And in 2020, who doesn’t need more of that energy?