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| Dirty mirrors and work clothes. |
By 2002, Kitten was four and I found myself in the midst of a re-kindling. After two years of only telephone and email contact, Wolf and I had a face-to-face visit. It lasted ten days, out here on the Island, and resulted in Kitten and my relocation to Ontario to create our new family. Why Ontario? Well, Wolf was the sole proprietor of a thriving company which wouldn't have taken well to uprooting.
... yes, this does have something to do with hair and my issues therewith...
My bleach phase was on hiatus and I hadn't done anything more than remove the remaining white tips from my hair. Ontario weather is brilliant! I grew up in arid Alberta and, therefore, didn't know my hair was curly. The constant Hamilton humidity meant twelve hours of air-drying time after I washed my hair. I finally had a wash-n-go 'do!
So, the very air was my friend, and my hair was growing ridiculously fast. My life was fresh and new. I was ready to start playing again. There was only one problem. Wolf was the sole proprietor of a thriving company in Hamilton, Ontario - I was 'Dharma' to Wolf's 'Greg,' but with less self worth and more guilt and a martyr complex that beat all. I was bound to the rules of upper-middle class society. No visible piercings. No funky colours. Buy yourself a nice dress...
And then, two years had passed. My hair was mid-back length and shapeless. Wolf was afraid to let me cut it, so I let myself get talked in to a 'complimentary birthday haircut' by our stylist friend. Oops. I asked for long layers, she layered it. I walked out with diamond head. You know, where the fullest part of the hair is at the jaw line and it tapers both up and down from there? Well, I stuck with that cut for about two weeks (see a pattern here?) before I grabbed the scissors. Wolf said he'd feel better if he cut it, as he could see the back of my head. So, he cut it. That one didn't even last 48 hours before I fixed it.
Two years later I cut off several inches in an attempt to clear up my split ends. I swore I'd start trimming in every couple of months, but it was already too late. The obsession was growing without my realizing. While I was busy being resentful, I neglected to see the strengthening correlation between my okay-ness and my hair. And my hair got longer. Two more years later and I had six inches removed. It was back to an inch above my bra strap. And my hair got longer...
I'm standing at the crossroads, nine years from my last play-with-my-hair day. My locks are long enough that they get caught under my leg when I get into the truck. They are badly damaged from years of sweater collars and it takes me almost an hour to get shampoo and conditioner through and then rinsed out of them. It's like having a baby. Everything has become difficult: sleeping, showering, cleaning, working... it's always in the way. Even if I put it up... It takes way too much energy, and it isn't energy I want to spend.
Are you asking how it got to this point? Why I didn't cut it sooner, if it was bugging me so much? Because it's long. It's really, really long. In a world where long hair is defined as 'below the shoulders,' it has become more than novelty. It's a defining characteristic. A part of me points out how pathetic that is. I'm a great person. I'm kind and likable. None of those things is effected by the length of my hair. My value or 'specialness' isn't decreased because I don't have long, unhealthy, resented hair.
Besides, it's not like it won't grow back...
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