A Hairy Situation

I love a good head of hair. Long, short, shaggy or shaved. Red, blond, black or brunette. In fact, I have an inappropriate tendency to ask various individuals if I may run my hands through their locks. Professors, bagpipers, politicians, no one is off limits. Amazingly, every man I have ever propositioned has agreed to let me fulfill my wish. I simply have an insatiable appetite. I just see men and want to get my paws on their scalp. Is this normal? This fixation may be related to my Panda Bear complex, a strong desire that compels me to nuzzle my face in a Panda’s belly when I come across one. And living in DC, in close proximity to the Zoo, that happens more than one would think...


Anyway, my own hair has become a bit of an issue for me over the past few years. The last haircut I received was about a week before I graduated from college, several years ago. The reason I have abstained for so long is due to the horrific hair butchering I received, forever captured in my cap and gown photographs. I have extremely curly hair and I believe the person who snipped my locks had never encountered such a thing. By the time she finished her assault on my head of hair, the damage was done. It was sheared so short the hair could barely curl. The remaining strands clung to my skull like frightened children grasping their mother at crazy Aunt Ida's house. The woman then began to blow dry my hair, giving me an Elvis-like pompadour. Except Elvis looked more feminine than I did. If only I owned a white rhinestone jumpsuit. I looked in the mirror and wiped away the tears, concurrently rubbing every lamp I came in to contact with, hoping a Genie would grant me a wish and my hair would be restored. No such luck. My hair was a disaster. It was the worse fate for a girl to be bestowed. I...looked...like...like..like...a...BOY!!!!!!


All these memories of my childhood came flooding into my consciousness, all of the haircuts that had brought me to tears, the trips to the hair dresser that resulted in me looking like a dark haired "Annie." When I was in sixth grade, I was finally allowed to grow my hair out (after a long fought campaign of "my body my choice," a pretty sophisticated argument for a 12 year old I like to think), and was thrilled with my semi mullet that I proudly pulled into a tiny little pony (OK...rat) tail in the back. The sides puffed out, similar to that of a powdered wig. Though the resemblance was apparent, I was a bit taken a back when a particularly mean boy, who had often tormented me,screamed "you look like George Washington!!!" in his most taunting and bullying manner. "Well," I said, "there are worst things to be called then one of our Founding Fathers!" That shut him up...


The horror of my last hair cut lasted though my college commencement ceremony, my summer backpacking trip through Europe, and my time in graduate school, in which my student ID photo portrayed me as a jaundiced five year old, the result of the Shirley Temple cut and poor lighting. In spite of that previous trauma, I have decided that the time has come to get my hair cut once more. I am a grown up now and have much better perspective. I know a bad haircut is not the end of the world. I mean, just because I remember being dressed up in blue corduroy overalls as a child and people complimenting my mother(who, rather than correcting anyone and risking them feeling uncomfortable, disregarding and negative gender identity issues), on what a cute little boy she had, does not mean I cannot handle getting a haircut, right??? Hmm...Well, maybe I'll just get a trim.