Hair Share
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Hair is weirdly intimate. It is inherited; it is fashionably styled; annoyingly unruly. Sometimes we lovingly pet it; sometimes we fight with it.
Hair can be an important part of relationships- like one between a mother and daughter. All the girls know that the ritual of getting ready and styling our hair together before a night out is more fun than actually going to the club.
The sacred mystery of life’s impermanence is captured in these strands. We notice when our ponytails begin to thin and how its color changes as we age. My hair can make me feel beautiful just as easily as it makes me feel beast-like.
Hair is identity.
Mine clogs the shower drain and vacuum cleaners; I find it everywhere, from my bedsheets to carry-on bags.
I wear it proudly as a crown. I hide it under baseball caps.
When it cooperates I twirl it flirtatiously, flip it over my shoulders with the sass of a diva. Hair is sexuality, autonomy, vitality, and freedom. I’ve said it many times before: my hair is my power.
We associate hair with eras of our lives, my phases included are the bleached-and-toned ombré after a major breakup; the preposterous purple period; the buzz cut of my own manic-pixie-dream-girl era, which arrived during a period of profound mental health upheaval sophomore year of college.
Hair holds memories. And for all the ways that hair can tell us who we are, it is something we can tell stories about and something we can share.
This summer, the biopsy and diagnosis came in: my best friend has breast cancer. Although illness and suffering is very serious; the act of loving someone doesn’t have to be.
She began chemotherapy more than two weeks ago. While we were on the phone last week, she mentioned that she had noticed her hair was beginning to fall out as one of the side effects of her treatment.
Then I paused for a moment.
Wait… do you want to have mine?
There can be humor, vanity, awkwardness, beauty, and even a little ridiculousness about the whole hairy business. She said yes.
Caring and Comfort is a company that specializes in making custom wigs for women during meaningful times of hair loss from cancer, alopecia, or other conditions. I placed the order for a custom wig on the same day I had my wash and style appointment.
My whole life, I was told I had beautiful hair. Strong, 3A curls. A rich, deep brown, with natural red highlights that appear differently depending on the lighting. On a good day it’s marvelous and magical like a lion’s mane.
Years ago, I was a hair model for Bumble and Bumble’s curling iron artistry sessions. So, my hair has, in fact, had a career. It has personality. I’m rather attached to it. And I was prepared to cut off fourteen inches.
I thought about Jo in Louisa May Alcott’s Little Women who cuts and sells her hair as a sacrifice to save her family from poverty. Mulan, who cuts her hair as she steps into an entirely different version of herself.
To me, this wasn’t a trim, it was a transformation. A visual declaration; a socially acceptable way of announcing “The person I once was is not the same as the person I will be.”
I learned early in life that hair could be a negotiation. I grew up with a Korean mother who did not understand my curly hair and was always trying to find creative ways to make it straight. As a teen, I endured chemical straight perms and Japanese keratin treatments.
In my 20s I used flat irons and paid top dollar for blowouts. I tried any type of intervention that promised to tame my mane against the way it naturally wanted to lay.
Eventually, I got tired of fighting nature and I surrendered:
Just let the wind sweep through it, the way God intended: curly, unruly, and softly sprinkled with the dusty-ass Manhattan air.
The shearing ceremony was led by Ayça Yilmaz, a professional stylist and colorlist at Roman K Salon on Madison Avenue. I put my faith (and length) in her hands.
And baby, I love the new look!I was afraid of the risk of looking like an elementary schoolboy heading to T-ball practice. To my surprise, I look deeply feminine, and a touch of bold lipstick adds to the new flavor.
I love my hair so much that I decided to release it. No one told me to do it. Changing it does not make me any prettier. I let it go because someone I love needs it, and I happen to have it in abundance.
Love is enormous and sometimes it looks like five braids lined up neatly in a plastic bag.
As I held my hair in my hands, I understood why people have told me it is beautiful.
I left the salon and I walked around Manhattan a new woman. I strolled through the Met feeling like a work of art. I was convinced people were looking at me differently; they weren’t. It was me who was doing that.
The next morning I was hit with a harsh reality. I could change my appearance but I couldn’t change the fact that my best friend has cancer.
My gesture didn’t make the truth disappear or chemotherapy any easier.
So I hit play on the Lady Gaga song “Hair”. I am free as my hair. I have been given this halo and the ability to grow it back. I can’t choose what happened in the past or what will happen in the future but I can choose what I do with the blessings I’ve been given.
