on hair

Hair is not just hair. Hair is a statement of belief, or of defiant non-belief. It’s a security blanket and a freak flag; a means of seduction or a mode of protection. Our hair intimately connects our inner selves to our environments: it becomes dirty with both our own oils and sweat, and with the special brand of grime particular to the place we call home. Our hair carries the smells of our bodies and of the products we choose to use on our bodies. Catching a glimpse of growing roots means unearthing your own lineage, of reclaiming the invisible hand of genetics: so there is the chocolate brown of my shtetl-born grandfather, the glinting gold hints of my peaches-and-cream grandmother.

When you meet me, you will see my hair first. It’s red – the bluish crimson of a chosen redhead, not the gentle strawberry tones of a genuine ginger – with bleached blonde bits scattered kind of randomly about (the exact pattern of which is apparently only known to my beloved colorist). I’m only five feet tall, but apparently easy to pick out of a crowd. Twice in the past week, in fact, my sister has been able to spot me diagonally across blocks when meeting me for dinner (we hang out a lot): I’m the low-lying red head perched atop a black-clad body.

I think my hair has a mind of its own. Sometimes, what is supposed to be red looks more orange-toned, the color of a citrus slice floating in a vodka-cranberry; under the glare of a high sun it’ll be straight-up fluorescent maraschino cherry. Sometimes the bleached blonde streaks are, indeed, the bleached blonde I intended them to be; days later the shafts will turn salmon-colored, while the roots remain yellow-white.

It’s taken years of evolution to get my hair the way it is now. And I feel like my hair is something I can claim honest ownership over. I only felt that I could truly claim my body after my adolescence, once I’d lived in it for a while, which took a lot of attention and honesty and generosity. But, once I was old enough, and sick enough of my boring natural color, I could control my hair in a way I couldn’t really control the exact shape of my thighs. My hair doesn’t only belong to me as a human being, but it belongs to me in the way a painting belongs to the painter: it’s something I’ve chosen to create, and the world sees exactly what I intended.

It’s true what they say about the slippery slope of a dye job: like tattoos and piercings, coloring your hair is an addiction. Regardless of how many hours and dollars and follicles I have harmed in the making of this ridiculous combination of sunset shades – regardless of how far away I am from the truth of the quiet mousy brunette hiding beneath the screaming red – I always want more. It’s the easy thrill of the thing, for sure: with just a few hours of lounging around on various salon chairs, you can become a whole new person. You can see, point-blank, the fiery cool chick, the flame-headed seductress, you’ve always dreamed of being actually becoming a reality. Plus, depending on the salon you go to, you can get some good girl chat and a coffee to go with it.

I think I’m mostly addicted to the idea that my hair can speak for me. I don’t speak often, but I’ve got a lot to say. I am a responsible adult, but I cling to irreverence. I deeply respect my elders, but I am obsessed with the sugar-sweet, flash-in-the-pan cheek of pop culture. I am drawn to peaceful stability but resist stagnation.

It’s probably wishful thinking to believe that my hair evokes these contradictions. But I think the beauty of hair is in its perfect combination of malleability and inevitability – so you may as well make it say what you want it to. 

*And: I apologize that this song is now definitely stuck in your head*