Today was an extraordinary day of self-recognition. It arrived out of nowhere, this awareness, and I’ve been wearing it all day like a snug jumper, cozy against all offensive weathers. Today I realized that I'm not just an expression of art but I'm the whole damn gallery of art. An exhibition admired and misunderstood, poured over, and inhaled. It's this very mood that paints the walls and floors of all the places I belong to, and all the ceilings and windows too. It's simply me, projected through a lens, displaying the multitudes of self-transformations, and like with all good pieces of art, I’m not finished. Instead, I’m manifesting; evolving, reclaiming, and sprouting anew. This isn’t an overdose of ego-stroking, I assure you. Yeah, it probably sounds like my ego has fed itself into a throne, sat a crown on its head, and is haughtily twirling Charles 11’s orb and scepter. But it isn’t, I promise.
I believe society has a long way to go before being comfortable with women loving on themselves; a message we’re taught to revolt against from our youngest years. Although I’ve never been very good at conventionality, nor preserving the prehistoric and barbaric ideologies surrounding women and our “place” within a patriarchal society, I do admit to feeling a little sheepish when bragging about myself. I’m not saying I’m going to stop - because I’m not - but I am saying it’s a little uncomfortable to self-praise aloud. Which is wrong. One should never feel uneasy about self-praise, nor should it be met with such hatred and judgment. So here it is, my confessional, acknowledging the multisensory journey that is me. A beautifully enriched journey of ignited starbursts and unlit beds of sea, of cosmos and magic, and a gathering that marvels.
Today I had my hair cut. I had several inches removed from my being, watching as it was strung together in a neat braid, ready for donation. I was purged before an audience, all of whom stood around gasping and complimenting the removed locks. The expunged hair was carted off quickly. It reminded me of a 90s horror movie, when masked nurses with ill intent would remove newborns from their mothers, before disappearing out of sight. Just like those expectant mothers, I watched as far as my sight would allow before all was suddenly over. My hair was gone.
It was quite a strange experience losing so much of my identity. Not to mention losing the weight from my shoulders and back. For reference, my hair was a lion’s mane of thickness, coiled and unmanageable, that fell below my waist. Think Cousin It but with more split ends. To say that I'm very attached to my hair is an understatement. Perhaps I'm more attached than what's considered reasonable to some. Hair has always been an emblematic gift within my culture. It’s symbolic of life. It’s representative of power. A sacredness that's explained through mythological stories, such as the Seleucid queen Berenice II of Egypt; a Macedonian Greek from the Hellenic culture, who sacrificed her hair in exchange for the safe return of her husband. Or Medusa, one of three Gorgon sisters, whose cruel fate was to have her beauty transformed into that of a monster; her luscious hair replaced by a scalp of villainous snakes. Or as seen with Nisus, whose purple lock of hair flowed with divine power and sorcery. Simply put, we’re raised to believe that our hair is interconnected to something far greater than ourselves, and to tamper with that source of power is an intimidating venture. Yet, there’s another side to having too much hair. One that isn’t vested within cultural pursuits and mythological pastimes.
For the last few years, I haven’t been happy with my appearance. I woke up one morning, stunned by who was staring at me from the mirror in my bathroom, wondering whether the reflection was a vision of someone sent to haunt me. Alas, it was me. Chubby cheeks and a double chin, messy hair wrapped in knots before being pinned on top of my head, and my favorite t-shirt, stained from last night’s dinner, now pulling across my Winnie the Pooh stomach.
I was a whole chunk of a bad lifestyle. Just standing there, boldly glaring back at myself with dark circles and embedded laughter lines. Don’t misunderstand me – I’m not advocating fat shaming. I acknowledge and embrace and relish all aspects of beauty in an inclusive and comprehensive spectrum. I’m a season ticket holder to the body-positive movement, sitting in the front row with cheer and finger snaps and everrrrything. Nonetheless, I’m not my happiest when my scales dare to compare me to a hippopotamus. And my weight has tanked my ability to feel good about myself. That’s when I realized my hair was no longer a superpower but an archrival. I even gave it a name, Audrey II, (Little Shop of Horrors) because my hair became a smothering vine, mapping my body and asphyxiating it with prickly curls. I was buried somewhere beneath all that hair, veiled and secreted, just as I intended. I was hiding in plain sight, and it felt altogether wonderful to be so invisible. Or for a little while, at least. With much encouragement from my wife, who’s always pushing the hair from my face, I was ready to make the exchange of power: a new self to replace the old self, and new power to supersede all previous negative powers.
After months of convincing, and many canceled appointments later, I finally found the courage to embrace this new face, this new body, and this new woman. Sheared hair fell from me like dumbbells. There was quiet liberty to having my hair pruned, despite a small ounce of regret at overhearing my ancestors talk amongst themselves, examining why I’d demolish such a valuable part of myself. They didn’t seem to understand that I was saving myself.
I cut my hair to an inch above my shoulders. I also opted for a dye job, coloring it two different shades of blonde, and layering it for an edgy appeal. It’s a great cut, I must say. More than the loss of burdensome hair, I have gained a whole new charm. I feel lightweight, figuratively and literally speaking, and attractive too, and as unsuitable as my culture would have me believe, I feel more connected to my divine energy than ever before.
Today, within all its extraordinariness, was a wonderful day of self-recognition. I’m reconnected. I’m re-energized. And I’ve become emancipated through this cathartic mission of chopping off most of my barnet (British-cockney for hair). Today, I realized that I'm not just an expression of art, nor am I just the whole damn gallery of art, but I am the artist too.
(Artwork by Laura Tietjens)
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