As I sat in the barber chair, I experienced a mix of emotion that rendered me immobile; Fear of the outcome; Anxiety, because we’ve been together since birth, and this is the first time we were to part ways; Nervousness, because of the anticipation; Uncertainty, because as a female, your hair is your confidence. With my eyes closed, I heard the razor come on, sounding similar to a phone vibrating, and knew then, it was too late to change my mind. A few seconds later, a piece of my hair brushed my lips as it traveled south making its way to the floor.
I opened the door hesitantly and cut across the room. Laughter and communications greeted me. There were talks of politics, females, sports, weather, and did I mention females. I looked around not really looking at anything, until my eyes focused on the customers. No surprise to find all eyes on me. After all, this is considered a men’s domain. I was unsure of why I was there. One minute I was walking through 116th St in Harlem, and the next hour found me seated next to an African American young man with 5 cornrows, a wife beater, khaki shorts, and a pair of Jordan’s talking to his barber as I waited for the next available barber and he, his barber.
"First-come, first-served" was there policy. The shop was hip and modern with a younger men clientele. They ranged from ages 5- early 30s, give or take. The adolescents had booster seats. Some cried the whole way through adding their own soundtrack to the movie playing on the television in the back of the room. There was never a dull moment. The environment made me relax and feel at ease. I was in no rush to get back to the heat of the summer sun that was baking me at a 150 degree. I got 2 shades darker within 2 hours. With my eyes back in focus, I noticed a tall medium built light- skinned barber nodding in my direction. I looked around to make sure it was I he was beckoning.
It felts like years, but in truth it was a few seconds before the first section of my hair was shaved off. I felt a breeze where hairs once reside. I opened my eyes and the TV stared back at me. I closed my eyes again. I heard the protest of men as the barber cut away. My stomach knotted and I started sweating profusely. I squirmed as the barber asks me repeatedly to stop moving to no avail. That which I’m unknown to, I’m a victim of. It’s something that I can’t control. Random decision, random shop, random excuses, and none of it random.
I’ve always envied bald women. I love the way the sun kisses their head. I like the freedom. I adore their fearlessness. They are not to be ignored. Growing up my mother always equates beauty with hair and how one carries their selves. I became obsessed with my hair. It became mandatory to get it done every 2 weeks. I wouldn’t go out if my hair wasn’t done because I didn’t feel as pretty. As I entered college, it became hard to maintain my hair rituals. I no longer had the funds or the resources. I had a cousin that attended school with me. She was my go to person for my hair.
The whole ordeal lasted no more than 10 minutes. The first time I looked at myself in the mirror, laughter kissed my lips. I laughed hard, but I cried just as hard. Looking back at me was the same oval butter pecan skin with a golden tint paired with glistening chestnut brown almond shape eyes, full lips with a laugh line on the left, and a shaved head. The experience was exhilarating and freeing. That would be the first of other times to come. Only then did I come to know beauty. Your appearance can say a lot about your character.
That night found me at the tattoo parlor. I wanted to have something to capture that moment, that day. I chose a rose. It represented two things for me: that I am strong and fragile like the petals of roses and beauty. The sound of the tattoo gun bought me back to the barbershop. Just this time the vibration was on loud and it brings forth pain. To maintain myself, I squeezed my cousin’s hand, bit my lip until I tasted the unfamiliar taste of metal, sweet, and salty taste of blood. It felt like a cat was scratching my skin claws bared making my body a temple of memories. At times the pain got unbearable. I almost asked for an epidural believing I was giving birth. Even as I’m hurting, I know exactly what I’m going to get out of it.
Tis a day I will never forget. It was an epiphany in my life. It amazes me that we could achieve a different look or attitude simply by changing your hair. In the 1920’s, women cut their hair to reject their parents values. Fast forward today, women cut their hair to convey their sexual orientations. Then you have the in between, like I, who are rebels with no cause and marched to our own beat. I don’t fit into any category, for me it boils down to having choices. I was evolving and I wanted to reflect my evolution. I had the freedom to do as I pleased without any consent. Had I still been living in Haiti, I would have never been granted this experience. My family is very religion oriented. I received a lot of backlash for cutting my hair. It was considered sinful. My mother didn’t think I was as attractive with shorter hair. She laughs at me each time I go get extension put in. The irony of that. Yet that hasn’t stopped me for going bald a 2nd time around.
I am turned off by some of the dogma created by people and society. Perhaps that’s where my love for the fearless comes in. We’re only young once, and this is the time to go crazy for we are young and foolish. Each phase of life brings its own joy. “We dress every day in costume, a costume that we convey to the world as we want to be”. I don’t remember where I seen or read that quote, but it has since stuck and traveled with me. The world is my runway, I have no respect for status quo. Call me crazy, but the only thing you can’t do is ignore me.
Bisous,
Sammy
