Call Me Miriam: Professor Longhair(cut)


Just before the tresses got trimmed.

I haven't had my hair cut in over two years.

It's not that I didn't want it cut. There have been days when I looked in the mirror and thought, I do not want long hair. I do not want medium length hair. I want short hair!

You may be wondering, "But Miriam, the photo you have here IS with short hair." Yes. That's true. It's also from Spring 2011. I was also the thinnest I've been since the year 2000, when I had mono. Things change.

When I got that haircut, it was the shortest of three or four I got from a great hairdresser who was recommended to me by a handful of other girls with curls. As someone who has received completely unflattering haircuts in the past from scissor-wielding hair care professionals who didn't have the first clue about curly cut etiquette, I tend to stick with the person who frames my face and allows me to pull my hair off of it when necessary.

As it's gotten longer, my hair has become what my mother used to deem it: the Wreck of the Hesperus. Not sure that was the most appropriate analogy for her to draw a line between, but it was frequently tangled, as it is so often now. Each day is a struggle to turn it from a matted clump into the pleasant spirals I know it can be.

And so, I have made an appointment to have it taken care of. One of my coworkers at my main job (the one with the most hours and benefits) is a hairdresser who has been itching to get her mitts on my noggin for many moons. Last week, I relented. I'm ready.

I am ready to release my bum-length tresses that, when removed from a ponytail, cause me pain. I am ready to reduce my conditioner and finishing product budgets each month. I am ready to wear my hair down all the time, without reaching to plait it into braids or pull it off my face and neck and into a foot-long mane dangling past my shoulders within an hour or two.

I am ready to feel the breeze on the back of my neck, to turn over in bed without being strangled by my hair, to put on a shirt or dress or coat without having to remove a layer of locks stuck inside of it. I am ready for a haircut.

What's funny, is that the men in my life love my hair long. I see it as a lifeless mass of unmanageable fluff. I'm not sure what they see in it. It is definitely not my most feminine feature.

The women in my life know that if I don't like it, it will grow back. It's just hair. My mom and sister have both had short hair for at least 20 years. Grandma, too. Of course, my hair is curlier. I don't dye it. Half of it is definitively turning white, and soon I will look more like Cruella Deville than a brunette, but hey, it's all part of looking more distinguished. Right?

I told my coworker/hairdresser, that I don't mind if she needs to cut it short, as long as it is healthy again, and it looks good. Otherwise, I'm not that picky. I mean, I like my hair. I play with it when I'm bored, like a few weeks ago when I made a full beard and mustache with it. I like the way it looks in two braids. I like to wear it long. I also like to run my fingers through it, which cannot happen when it is long.