Posted on Oct 13, 2011 By admin
Posted on Oct 13, 2011 By admin
Since all women are taught that our hair is their crowning glory; and spend billions of dollars every year to care for it, is it any wonder that women ball like babies over the removal of hair?
But all those tears makes me wonder is it really the hair we're crying about? Without knowing it, we seemingly get attached to hair length at detriment of appreciating our true beauty. Years ago, my boss's assistant, a beautiful young lady, wore hair pieces. I wore my hair short, as I have for the past 20 years. She liked my short cut and wanted to get her hair like mine. So I gave her my hairstylist's information and she booked an appointment for that weekend. On Monday, my boss and I couldn't wait to see the new look, but was shocked when she had on a hat with hair sticking out at the back. "What happened," I asked? She came into my office she said: "He butchered me!" The statement was so drastic, I couldn't believe it. Not only had I been seeing this stylist for over 10 years, but he is one of the most reputable hair experts who specializes in cuts in New York City. After several minutes of prodding to see what her hair looked like, she finally let us see what was under the wig.
To our surprise her hair was not butchered as she exclaimed. Even mashed up under the wig we could see the cut was cute. Truth be told, you could have put a black garbage bag on her and she would have looked stunning because of her facial features. But at that moment, what she saw looking back at her was anything but beautiful. She was excited to get her hair cut. But what none of us calculated, including her, however, was this: she had been emotionally attached to those hair pieces that gave her length and framed her face. The hair had become a safety blanket and without it she felt naked—stripped of her identity, and of her beauty. So much so that she felt her hair was "butchered."
I can somewhat relate to that thinking. I remember as a teenager how upset I would get when my hair stylist would make a trim and I saw, what I thought, was all of my hair on her at-home salon floor. But by at the age of 19, seeing the short styles of some of my favorite celebrities gave me courage to get shorty. I was attending Parsons School of Design and I wanted a look that, was well, a real look. Tired of putting my hair in a ponytail, I wanted something that was more funky and represented the young, art student me.
I chose a new salon to get this done; one known for being more on the cutting edge of style in my hometown of Brooklyn. I didn't go to my mother's hairstylist who had been doing my hair for years, primarily for two reasons: I always had to comb it after she finished "styling," to get a look that I wanted. And while skilled at cutting, she was sorely lacking in knowing how to finish a style that illuminated the cut. She always rolled up my (or anyone else's) hair the same way, ensuring that no matter the cut we'd all end up with a bouffant set of curls. That was definitely not cute.
So I couldn't trust her to get this epic change. Especially after I convinced my cousin Denise to cut her shoulder-length, thick locks into the style we saw a top model at the time wear in an old issue of "Essence": Straight, flowing, sexy layers.
My cousin has a big head, so big curls on her are a disaster. Even I knew that. I watched approvingly as my mother's stylist cut Denise's hair into the layers we saw and you could see the beauty of it even wet. Then I looked on in horror as her hair was roller set into multiple rows. How, I thought, was she supposed to see all those layers if you roll it like that. I wasn't a stylist, but I knew this wasn't the styling solution needed to show off a cut!
So when it was my turn for a new look, I had no choice but to look elsewhere—especially since I, now, was paying for it. I looked through magazines and saw a cute short cut. I got the look I wanted and never looked back. Since that time, I've had short hair (pressed, no relaxer), braid extensions, curly Afro weave (one of my favorites), blond weave (no photos to prove this one), Ceasar (hmm, not my best look) and back to my short, relaxed style (pixie, spiky, slicked down). I think it's because I've switched it up so many times over the years why cutting my hair never phases me. And why when I see the emotional toll (tears and all) a big hair cut takes on women—whether that's on "America's Next Top Model," "Tough Love Miami" or at a Big Chop event—I'm always suprised. Our hair is our crowning glory, but we are the true jewel—with or without lengthy locks.
Tell me, have you ever broken down in tears after getting your hair cut? And if so, how did you get over it?
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