It seemed as if I kept “Going in Circles” like an old Friends of Distinction song! I was making the same bad decisions over and over again. I was spiraling out of control, and the weight of everything was dragging me down. I was tired of pleasing everyone, doing things I didn’t want to do, and making everyone happy but me. Something had to give. I had to break free, but how? I know, I’ll cut my hair!
I know it sounds crazy, but at the time it seemed as if cutting my hair was the only thing over which I had control. No one could tell me I couldn’t. After all, it was my hair. So, I went to the nearest Wal-Mart, marched right up to the counter (before I lost my nerve), and announced, “I want to do the big chop.” Now this was something I had always planned on doing when I hit the big 5-0, but I was about six months premature.
The girl behind the counter gave me the “yeah right” sistah smirk that went all the way from her raised left eyebrow to the lowered right corner of her bottom lip. Of course, me being who I am, that only made me more determined. I was never the type to stand up for myself or make a scene. People didn’t often believe me when I made bold declarations about what I wanted or what I was going to do, but “they” were gonna learn that day!
Once I was in the chair, she shook out the faux-silk SmartStyle cape, wrapped my neck with the stiff, public school restroom-like tissue paper, snapped me into the cape, and pumped me up to the proper cutting level. Once again the young lady asked me how short I wanted it, and in my best Angela Bassett/Bernadine Harris “Waiting to Exhale” voice I said, “Cut it all off.”
She got out the shears and began with an uncertain SNIP SNIP. By this time, I was loosing my patience. It shouldn’t take this much convincing to get somebody to cut your hair. I asked, “What’s the problem? Most beauticians are usually scissor happy.” This seemed to provide the proper motivation. Her SNIPS were deeper, swifter, and made with a bit more attitude. After she finished with the shears, she got the clippers and obviously the longest guard she could find. When she finished and handed me the mirror, I simply said, “Lower.” We did that twice more. When it was finally short enough, I thanked her, paid, and left.
Though I didn’t have a lit cigarette or a BMW full of my soon-to-be ex-husband’s gasoline soaked, tailor-made suits; I strutted out of that Wal-Mart every bit as confident and satisfied as Bernie when she thumped that cigarette and set old boy’s world on fire. I was 49, unapologetic, and unbothered. I was finally ready to start living my life on my own terms, and it felt amazing! It was the first symbolic step on this journey to becoming me. And it all started when I cut my hair!
Intrinsically Traci Lynn 