I am a blockhead.

I am a blockhead.

Okay, I swear, this is the last time I write about my hair. But it took me almost three years (with a couple of homestyle trims) to grow and I was quite attached to my locks. Cutting 'em off felt like removing an organ.

I’ve grown my hair to hippie length five times throughout my life: by curiosity (end of high school through sophomore year of college), by vanity (early 20s), by rebellion (late 20s), by vanity again (mid 30s), and then, these last years, by fear. 

I am more attached to head hair than any other feature on a person. Sure, wit, humor, sweetness – these traits win the day; but in re to actual features, I am all about the hair. It’s the first thing I notice (or don’t, if you don’t have any) on everyone. EVERYONE! And I’m not opinionated about it, other than my own hair; it’s simply what I see (or don’t) first. It’s my sightline and my comfort. In the most pathetic way imaginable, hair is how I remember people: Not their dimples, not their brown eyes, not their high cheekbones, not their double chins; NOT THEIR PERSONALITIES. Their hair.

And so I demand a lot of my own.

Again, I have a blockhead. Really. The back is flatter than a brick and the frontal is a poorly made shelf (you could almost rest your wine glass on my forehead). If I were bald, you would notice, maybe not comment, but notice the pressed particleboard that is my head. My uncles and male cousins have beautiful domes; but the mix of Katz and Timpone left my skull wanting. So, me – a square container for a head. Hence, my need for hair.

I’ve lived in fear of balding since I was a boy. Blessedly, the men who made me – my father’s sable and my grandfather’s mink – led me to believe that I would be okay, that I would hold on, in some capacity, to my hair.

At the end of high school (Xavier and the bobby pins I used to tuck my hair up to avoid detention) and the beginning of college (Bennington, yay), I grew my hair long. And it was a fine feral ferret – wild and weasely. It felt good, and I would’ve kept it if I hadn’t gone for a trim… a trim that turned into a styling; and a styling that turned into a hairdo; and my inability to live with a hairdo which meant clippers and my first real experience with the shape of my pate.

Not good.

In graduate school (Columbia, boo), I was little… insignificant. Those were rough years – working full time, schooling full time, trying to socialize full time. My art wasn’t holding up, but I knew I had something that could out-glamour the sheen of 116th St.: My hair. So, I grew it long again.

My art improved.

Then I cut it off for a teaching gig.

Then grew it long again because I fucking couldn’t give a shit about what THEY thought of me (but I was terrified that they didn’t like me).

I cut it off because Maria kept telling me I needed a trim (and I really did!) and I remembered what that meant.

Grew it again after Aleda was born because I could and it looked so pretty.

Cut it off because I needed a trim…

And then, three years ago, I saw a thinning on my crown and I started to take every supplement that encouraged hair growth, let my “freak flag fly,” panicked endlessly, saw the recession, kept going, and then… folded.

I was done.

At around 9:00 pm last night, I cut the tail from my occiput, hacked at the mop with clippers and scissors, asked Sara Jane to help me with the strays, and gave up on my vanity.

[I’m just not that kind of proud enough to be “vain”; but, surprisingly, I’m confident enough to cut my own hair.]

I know it’s kind of gross to look at, but this clump of fur is being sent to Locks of Love (http://www.locksoflove.org/) tomorrow morning. At least my fear can be used productively.