Here is the thing about hair.
When I was younger, it was a slightly different color. Not as red. A bit more…….(gasp) blonde. Some referred to it as dirty blond, but I’d yet to reach the true height of my experimental dirty phase (that has yet to end).
It was long and curly and healthy and luscious and.. and.. and.. pretty.
My grandmother always said:
If you ever cut it, give it to me.
She had thin hair and so does the rest of my family.
Luckily, I also obtained other qualities detached from genetics: dimples, small breasts and my homo-ness.
I’m sure if I searched deeper in my family, I’d find the culprit of my dimples
(actually, I remember my grandmother having a hint of them)
I’d find someone in my clan with small breasts
(thank you to whomever that may be…….though I wish they could be even smaller)
And I know of at least one queer wonder in the family, though I never met him.
(thank you, too)
As I grew, my relationship to my hair got tangled. I kept all my anger inside my curls. The length represented someone who I no longer wanted to be. Each time in my life when things were wrong, I took rusty (sometimes) scissors to hair and would cut.
I went from long to extremely short in well under five minutes at the age of seventeen.
My mother called it: boy short.
I called it: freeing.
Then, I bleached it.
Dirty blond shifted to slightly orange.
This began my journey through root experimentation.
Pink. Purple. Blue. Black. Red. Red. Red.
I finally realized I was just in the wrong scalp.
I was born a redhead in a dirty blond’s body.
Each month, I must alter this. This becomes my least favorite time of the month, perhaps tied with the days in which my body reminds me of these eggs I’ve got and the babies I could (possibly) be birthing with each stain of my underwear.
Through each haircut, I’ve been the exact same person. Naturally, I have changed just a little: gotten a bit more mature and gained knowledge in areas I was not so aware of.
But I’ve always been a homo.
Funny……how hairstyle can sometimes change that.
Change the type of homo I am.
I’ve got all these knots in my hair.
Dreadlocks and tangles and today I cut two of them out.
Big monstrous ropes of red mixed with other shades of not-so-red.
When I went to work, I felt lighter. There was too much stuck inside those beasts of hair.
Then, I came home. Had a dance party in my bedroom. Grabbed my scissors and began to cut.
Slowly. Deliberately. Like a contemplative meditational chant.
I could use a touch up…..it’s hard to reach some places…..but I feel lighter than I have in over a year.
It’s just hair.
And I’m still just as queer as I was yesterday.
I’d like to keep cutting.
I could use some help.