I am not my hair, but…

You know a woman is going through a significant life change when she does something drastic to her hair. For a long time I thought that was somewhat exclusive to black women (ignorant of me, I know), but as I take a look around it seems to be fairly true across the board. The change could be internal (she feels like a new person, or something in her is different), or external (someone or something has irrevocably blindsided her). Or sometimes nothing has changed, but she wishes it had.

So what’s the whole “hair thing” about?

Well, hair is, and always has been important (first biologically, now culturally). For men, it has been a sign of youth, power, and virility. For women, it is a sign of health, and a beauty trait. And we all know how concerned we are (as a human culture) with beauty. For many women, our hair is an extension of who we are. It is part of our identity. And, it is a living, growing record of our lives. Everyone can associate a time in their life with the hairstyle they rocked. This is why we change our hair. We cut it off to refresh, restart, forget. We color it to change, innovate, shed our old selves. We re-style it to add a new dimension to our lives, and ourselves. Maybe we just wanna feel foxy, you know? Spice things up. Sometimes we wake up and feel different from how we felt yesterday, and we want our outer appearance to reflect that.

Take me, for example. Most of my teenaged-life, my mom had been trying to coax me to lock my hair (get dreadlocks, for those who are confused). I wasn’t averse to the idea. Actually, I knew they’d suit me. But I was hesitant because I tend to get bored and change hairstyles often; I thought locs would be too restrictive. My boyfriend at the time made me promise myself to give locs a try when I turned 18.

Four months prior to my 18th birthday (when I was a sophomore in college) said boyfriend of two and a half years (and first love) had broken up with me. But I kept that promise to myself. (How appropriate.)

I started locking it. This is how it looked then.

Half locked, half not, all growth.

That year was such a memorable one in my life. I learned a lot about myself. Lot’s of things changed for me. And my locs, which are now at my shoulders, were there the whole time. They’re a record of that year, and all the subsequent years and experiences up ’til now. I met Jon that year. My hair is even part of our relationship—it has grown with us.

Me, my hair, and Jon, now.

Interestingly enough, the only way to get rid of locs is to cut them off. We’ll see what (if anything) prompts that.