In 1973 I wanted a haircut. Maybe it was 1974. I was in kindergarten. My hair was long, always in pony tails and a part of me that didn't seem to fit right. I wanted short hair. Not quite like a boy but not quite like a girl. I wanted something in between. Something that felt like me.
My mother denied me my haircut for the longest time. She spent countless hours with detangler sprays, combs and brushes. She made sure every hair on my head was perfect. If one piece of hair was out of place she would sigh, rip out the rubber band and start all over again. It was an awful lot to go through for something I didn't even want.
After relentless persuasion I finally got my hair cut. I would like to say it went down like this:
Me: "Mom I reaaaaaallllly want my hair cut short. Please???????"
Mom: "OK honey."
However, it went more like this:
Me: "Mom, I reaaaaalllly want my hair cut short. Please??????"
Mom: "Fine. If you want to look like a friggin boy I will chop your hair off like a friggin boy!"
And while I do not remember the exact haircut taking place, or the ride there and back, I can only imagine with great force and anger I was grabbed by the hand, thrown in the car and taken to the shop where I am positive the girl was told to make me look like a boy, but a really ugly one.
The only memory I have is arriving back home with my hands over my head screaming and crying and my mother slamming the front door in my face. I do know it was early morning and it seemed like the neighborhood was not yet awake. I went next door and called up to the window of the teenaged girl that lived next door. Her opinion, and company, was very important to me.
Me: "Do I look like a boy?"
Girl: "No, you look like a cuter version of you. It doesn't look like a boy or a girl. I think it fits you."
It was the worst haircut ever. But at that moment I didn't care. That is what I needed to hear.
My mother denied me my haircut for the longest time. She spent countless hours with detangler sprays, combs and brushes. She made sure every hair on my head was perfect. If one piece of hair was out of place she would sigh, rip out the rubber band and start all over again. It was an awful lot to go through for something I didn't even want.
After relentless persuasion I finally got my hair cut. I would like to say it went down like this:
Me: "Mom I reaaaaaallllly want my hair cut short. Please???????"
Mom: "OK honey."
However, it went more like this:
Me: "Mom, I reaaaaalllly want my hair cut short. Please??????"
Mom: "Fine. If you want to look like a friggin boy I will chop your hair off like a friggin boy!"
And while I do not remember the exact haircut taking place, or the ride there and back, I can only imagine with great force and anger I was grabbed by the hand, thrown in the car and taken to the shop where I am positive the girl was told to make me look like a boy, but a really ugly one.
The only memory I have is arriving back home with my hands over my head screaming and crying and my mother slamming the front door in my face. I do know it was early morning and it seemed like the neighborhood was not yet awake. I went next door and called up to the window of the teenaged girl that lived next door. Her opinion, and company, was very important to me.
Me: "Do I look like a boy?"
Girl: "No, you look like a cuter version of you. It doesn't look like a boy or a girl. I think it fits you."
It was the worst haircut ever. But at that moment I didn't care. That is what I needed to hear.
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