a hairy story

Last night I gave myself a haircut coz it was hot. Bloody hot. Insanely hot. Record-breakingly hot and my long hair was driving me crazy. I got Beloved’s clippers and the #4 comb and zizzed it all off, took a nice, cool shower and pretended I was going to be able to sleep.

Let me tell you about my hair: I have a love/hate relationship with it. Back in 2000 I worked for a small ISP. It went bellyup with a lot of other small ISPs when the dotcom bubble burst and I was out of a job. Got myself a haircut from someone who had left a flyer in my letterbox and that, my dears, was the most awfullest of mistakes. You see, I have the kind of hair that about 99% of hairdressers cannot cope with. I have thick, angry hair with a mind of its own. So there I was with this bloody awful haircut and not enough $$$ to do anything about it. I was bemoaning the situation to my buddy Ribs and I pointed to a lady with a crewcut. ‘That’s the kind of hair I want,’ I said.

‘Why don’t you?’ said Ribs. Well, after all, my hair couldn’t have got any worse.

So I did. And I was happy with it. Damned happy. You see, I’d never seen my head before and it turns out I have quite a nice one. It’s sort of Charlie Brownish, nice and round, you know. So I kept my hair short that summer and from time to time after that, I take to myself with the shears and let the old hair know who’s boss. Then from time to time I’d think nah and I’d let it grow. It would go through the awkward Doris Day stage and then the curls would come in and I’d be happy. Occasionally. Or it would look like a shaggy pony. Or it would get in my eyes. Or it would be flat when I wanted puffy. Or it would be too grey. Or it would have that dark stripe down the middle which meant I needed to dye it again.

I’d shave it in the summer to cool down and I’d shave it in the winter because I have to wash it every day and it takes a long time to dry and I didn’t want to spend all day with cold, wet hair.

I haven’t shaved my hair off since I started working for the cinema chain in 2007. Goodness, they will be surprised when I turn up for work on Thursday.

Last year I kind of thought I wanted long hair again. I’d been inspired by my buddies at Clarion. There was Carrot with her long, long, Titian locks, Mermaid, who freqently described herself as “Charcoal Blonde” (don’t believe a word of it) and Black Angel, both with their magnificent brunette manes and Butterfly and Window Doll with their fabulous crops of long, blonde hair, and Doc and Dark Heart with long, silky, perfectly-behaved hair. Only Unicorn and I had the short hair.

I desperately wanted to fit in. I decided to let my hair grow.

Once, a long time ago, I went to a hairdresser who loved my hair. I had gone to see him for two reasons:

1 because his shop was near where I worked

2 because his surname was the same as my nana’s maiden name, and if that isn’t a good reason to choose a hairdresser then I don’t know what is.

He took one look at my hair and I expected him to come out with the drooped shoulders and “you’ve got a lot of hair” comment that I usually got from hairdressers. Instead he told me my hair was wonderful. ‘I’m going to do that with it.’ He pointed to a poster on the wall. I didn’t believe him, but I didn’t argue either. It was such a novelty to have someone say something positive about my hair. I don’t have a lot of pictures from that time, but this is one of my favourites, just because my hair looks just as the guy said it would.

So last year when I was at Clarion I figured that I could have hair like the others. Like the young ones. Like I used to have in the seventies. Delusional? I think so.

It worked moderately well. There were days when I didn’t actually hate my hair and days when I admit to having liked it. It would do the curly thing and I’d believe that it would alllll be okay.

Then there was yesterday. My hair had been pushing its luck all summer and I’d started having to tie it up. I tied it up on hot days and I tied it up when I went to Curves. I had to beccause otherwise it would get pulled by the squat machine. Not fun. Not fun at all.

Now, when I say “tied it up” I mean in the way that unruly animals get tied up. I wish I could slip it into a nice, neat bun the way Poss does. She sort of twists it and then does something tricky with a chopstick (if she’s feeling Japanese) or a paintbrush (if she’s in an artistic mood) and it just stays there. Mine has to be lassoed and leg-roped the way you see in rodeos.

Yesterday was in the low 40s. For those of you who speak Fahrenheit, well 100ºF = 38.something, so we were well into the

hundreds and I don’t think it got out till sometime around midnight. And my hair was, well, here’s a “before” picture:

Me (on the right) with Sissy. This was taken Christmas Day as we kicked arse, playing Pictionary.

But last night was the end for the hair. I just couldn’t take it any more. No more fighting. I wanted the short hair again. I wanted it because it’s easy to take care of and it’s cool and it feels good. It’s thick as a seal’s pelt and people want to touch it (I know why dogs and cats like to be patted).

I knew that I had to cut it because my hair isn’t me, it’s just hair. It’s not my personality and my ability to write isn’t bound up in a bunch of old keratin strips that I keep dyeing blonde. I am not Sampson. My superpowers are neither lost nor gained through the posession of hair,  it’s just hair and keeping it on was like wearing a nice, wooly winter hat and the heat was making me miserable and angry and I kept having to rearrange it on the pillow when I was trying to sleep.

I shaved and shaved. I filled up the sink with hair and there was a hair blizzard in the bathroom. There was enough to stuff a pillow in the end. There was enough to stuff a mattress. Long hair was neither my strength nor my punishment. It was just hair. Mind you, I think there was probably a kilo’s worth shaved off, so it was worth it for that, at least.

So now I have this.

They’re gonna be surprised when they see me at work this week.

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