A Change is Gonna Come

When you move to a new city, finding a new salon is the most daunting task of all. Your hair is so intimately linked to your identity, and upon finding yourself in a new place, it is something you feel a burning need to alternately hold on to and radically change. These are trying times for you and your hair.

I was seized with the strangely persistent urge to cut my hair as soon as we arrived in the city. Strangely persistent because I have been growing my hair out now for several years.

When my sister and I were young, we were the kids with pixies and mushroom cuts and cute little bobs with bangs. My mother thought - and rightly so - that two tomboys with long hair would spell nothing but trouble. My long suffering father would plead, let it grow!, but we rarely did.

I decided to go for long hair when I was in my third year of university. The boyfriend at that time requested it, saying it looked more feminine. By the time it grew to chin-length, the relationship was over. But the allure of twisting strands between my fingers and twirling them like the girls I admired in high school was too great. I let it grow.

And grow and grow. I went for trims three times a year and dyed it a different color whenever I found myself bored with it. I found a stylist who magically coaxed curls out of my formerly baby-fine straightness. And then I moved.

Bringing us back to my persistent urge to cut. I suspect it was borne of the stress of moving. New city, new surroundings, uncertain job prospects, and all for the first time since .... ever, really. I decided a haircut would only bring tears and regret if done too soon after such a monumentous event. Don't do it, I ordered myself. Just wait a while.

But it has continued to gnaw at me, until this afternoon, when I found myself wandering into salons left and right, inquiring about appointments available. Right now. It had to happen, and I wasn't going home until it did. And after several hours, I was sitting in a chair at the New Look salon, a woman named Rita washing my hair for me.

The shampoo and conditioner smelled like honey and almonds, and having my hair washed reminded me of my sister. Now a hairstylist herself, she was the one who would help with all my teenage hair adventures. I can picture scenes of the two of us bent over the bathtub, me squeezing my eyes shut tight while she rinsed out leftover dye from my latest incarnation.

It wasn’t until I was in the chair that Rita asked what I wanted.

“Same cut, just a trim?” She said, comb in hand to begin the laborious process of detangling. This was my out - last chance to play it safe.

“Actually,” I began, as my hands went up to my wet hair, “I was thinking about a change.”

Her eyes met mine in the mirror and she smiled.

And that’s all it took.

Half an hour later, I walked out looking like a new person, and feeling like the queen of brave moves. Sometimes, it can be that easy. I didn’t even have to squeeze my eyes shut. Although I did have to look twice in the mirror when it was all over. I remember this girl. And I’m glad she’s back.