The Haircut

They’re in a black plastic box, bottom drawer, right side of the IKEA dresser.  When I open the case I discover the tiny bottle of oil meant to keep the blade from rusting has spilled. It takes a few minutes to wipe all the different attachments clean, but that gives me time to contemplate. Am I sure? Do I really want to do this? 

I step into the bathroom, plug the clipper into the socket by the sink and attach the number five guard. My finger presses the button, the machine begins to vibrate and I feel a familiar surge of weighted power. When I hold the cold metal to my right temple my brain is tickled by the deep industrial hum. I comb the blade through my hair and strands of dyed auburn drop to the floor. I continue to drag the clipper across my scalp and monitor progress in the mirror. As more of me begins to break through it feels as if I’m watching a moth emerge from its cocoon.

I have done this before. Many times, in fact. The reasons are complex. They weave themselves together like the intricate French braids my friends wove for one another when I was young. I wish I had the strength to untie the ribbon that binds my intentions together. I can tell you that sometimes I shave my hair because I’ve fallen into a deep and sudden despair. Sometimes I shave my hair to mark a transition. The end of one story and the beginning of another. Sometimes I shave my hair because I’m bored. No matter the logic behind my actions the urge rises up in me and the more I try to push it back down the more difficult the urge is to resist. 

With the first true pass of the clipper, the one we can call the point of no return, I feel defiant. The buzz of the blade across my scalp is like a rebel’s call to freedom. I have a giddy commitment to the process and cannot stop. I’m tempted to switch the five guard for the four but I won’t go too short. I’ll go just short enough. Short enough to neutralize. Short enough to strip away any pretense of femininity. Short enough to be plain on the outside but pretty on the inside. That’s what mom always said to comfort me, “It’s all right. You’re pretty on the inside.”

I try to convince myself that my choice of hairstyle tells the world I mean business. That I don’t have time to worry about my looks. But that’s not true. I have no regrets but the initial sense of defiance never lasts. I know from experience that within an hour I’ll be drawing in eyebrows long lost to menopause. Adding a pair of silver hoop earrings. Putting a swish of coral pink on my cheeks. I’ll attempt to be less plain and more pretty. I’ll acknowledge that there isn’t a sweatshirt baggy enough or jeans loose enough to hide the fact that I inherited my mother’s curves. 

The last strand falls. There’s always a bit of trimming to do around my ears with scissors. Once done I brush the hair from my body and step into the shower to wash myself clean. Stripping my head of hair is washing myself clean. Delivering myself from sin.

My mother loved her curves and used them to her advantage. She had a monumental rack to the day she died and swore it was sleeping in a Playtex bra every night that kept her bosom so impressive. Her breasts were like Sirens to men. Dangerous and alluring. She didn’t leave the house without them cantilevered to attention and a slash of Revlon’s Really Red across her lips. 

I watched men cycle through, I listened from behind closed doors to the fighting and was thrown against a wall more than once myself. I was born from sin.

-Mimm Patterson

Mimm Patterson is a yoga therapist and transformational coach specializing in chronic pain and trauma. She lives in the San Francisco Bay Area with her partner Ben and seventeen-year-old cat Bruce.