Haircuts and Hand Grenades

I haven’t gotten a haircut in over three years. Here’s why.


Hair to a woman is like penis size to a man. It is our Samsonian strength. Our subtle yet visible asset. The only proof needed of our blossoming fertility and mental stability. Beautiful, healthy women have beautiful, healthy hair. But crazy women? Vacant women? Unkempt, defiled and lost women?  Hair is the window to the soul.

Which is why I’m so god awful afraid of these two words: bad haircut.

I’ve gotten one before. Actually, I can think of at least four distinct times. One when I was in high school and a shoulder length bob became an ear lobe pixie. Another when I was a child and my mother insisted that I have bangs and wear hair bows. Some people are made for bangs and hair bows. I am not one of those people. I looked like ET playing dress up.


(Courtesy Tumblr:

I don’t know why I value a good haircut so much but my overestimation of it has placed me in a catatonic state of inaction. I’m like the Hamlet of haircuts. I will not act until I can prove the chances of my getting a haircut will result in no harm to my well being or the well being of others.

This is why I so rarely get my hair cut.

But I made an appointment for this Thursday, nonetheless.

It’s my first haircut in over three years.

Why? Because it’s time to blow shit up.

The only time I’m ever able to get my hair cut is when I no longer care whether the outcome is beneficial. Only when there is some greater, deeper purpose at hand am I able to muster the strength to climb up into the hydraulic chair and Velcro-strap myself into the black nylon cape that haunts my deepest female insecurities.

My history of haircuts moves in fits and stops. I get it cut short and grow it out long. There is no middle ground. I convince myself that short is the way to be; until it grows long and then that’s the way to be. Screw short. Short sucks.

I grow complacent. I forget about it. I don’t want to dish out the money for something I should really know how to do myself. I can think of a litany of excuses to explain my strange behavior but really it comes down to one fact: I only ever get a haircut when I’m ready to embrace change on a deep, metaphysical level.

I’m not talking about little changes here, like a new job or Brita filter, but big ones. Cataclysmic, perspective altering change. The stuff you look back on in life and say, “Ah, yes. That was the moment I … (conquered my fear/beat the clock of mortality/greeted the emptiness of my existence with a laugh/etc.)

That’s why I’ve had so few haircuts in my life: I’ve had so few instants of spiritual shift that necessitated cut-hair.

The last haircut I got was when my husband and I were dating. It was symbolic. It was to be my coming of age, my rebirth. I had spent years before meeting my husband living in a Plato’s cave, studying the nature of existence and wallowing in my own vast complexity. I read too much Russian literature. I ate too little cookie dough. I made this face far too often:  😡

But when I met my husband, my life became infinitely lighter By the hand he led me from the cave and with it, from a version of myself. It was an ideological shift so profound it scared the shit out of me.

And so I cut my hair.

Now it’s time to do it again.


Because I’m ready. I’m ready to declare myself that word I refused to declare myself for so many years and for so many reasons: a writer.

I’m ready to throw myself into the pool of public scrutiny and to scrape by on pennies doing freelancing jobs while I build my marketability. I’m ready to write those stories, the blurbs of which I’ve heard swimming through my head for the past twenty years. I’m ready to fail, to put myself back together, and to re-envision my purpose and projectile again and again and again and again. I’m ready to be brave. To be honest. To be myself. And I’m ready to trust my instincts above and beyond all else.

In short, I’m ready to create.

Hence the haircut.

Wish me luck …


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