Don't mess with the hair

No person is ever just one thing, one aspect or facet of their personality but often there are parts of ourselves that we place more emphasis upon. The things about yourself that you identify with most strongly. 

For me, it's very much being a bit of a wise-arse. That is how I see myself (which is pretty handy because I'd wager quite a few other people see me that way too). On a completely different tack, I also have a bit of a thing about my hair.

I was chatting with someone the other night when I mentioned that my imminent European trip was liable to put a serious dent in my bank account. So much so that I reflected that I may well have to sell everything I own when I get home, including my hair. And then everything went a little bit fuzzy, and soft focus, which would usually mean that I've had about five too many Rieslings but in this case, it was a storytelling device known as a flashback...

In this soft focus world, I am five years old and my mother has just committed the worst atrocity upon my young person that she will ever inflict. She has taken me to get my hair cut.  As a preschooler I had long, thick ringlets, sort of like a Māori Shirley Temple (but without the tapdancing skills) which by the time I reached school-age had somehow decided to straighten out. My mother, who has straight hair and was dead keen on having a curly-headed child, thought that perhaps the weight of it was causing the loss of curl. So she had it hacked off into a blunt "fifth Beatle" bob. 

From that day onward, I refused to have my hair cut for anything more than a trim for over ten years (because when I'm of a mind, I can be really, really stubborn). By the time I was fifteen it was past my waist. At high school I was unofficially known as "the girl with really long hair". Possibly "the nerdy girl with really long hair" would be more accurate. It may have gotten tangled in everything, and been prone to split ends but it was something of a trademark.

And then one day, I just got fed up with it and how long it took to wash and dry and brush. I didn't want it anymore. Just like the acidwash jeans or the crimping irons that I would also eventually dispense with (though in the case of the acidwash jeans, they shouldn't have been so much dispensed with as "wiped from existence" because those things were truly, truly heinous and a crime against eyeballs everywhere).

The guy who cut my hair, at my request into, a bob (oh the irony), double and triple checked with me that I was sure I wanted it cut (I think he thought I was going to be "a crier") and afterwards suggested that I could sell it because there was so much of it.  Aaaaand so we find ourselves back in the unfuzzy world of the present where this little backstory began.

Since then, I've pretty much never messed with my hair. I secretly suspect that my hairdresser, Jeff, likes it when I have an upsetting break-up because it makes me ever-so-slightly more vulnerable to his "let's do something radical" suggestions. One time, while V for Vendetta was in production and I was nursing a somewhat battered...what's that organy thing that does the blood pumping? Oh yes, heart - he suggested I shave my head like Natalie Portman. I don't know if it was because a) he was really bored or b) he thought he'd suggest something really extreme so as to get me to do something less drastic but still different, but my thinking was that the last thing I needed was to be single AND bald. For, if we cannot learn from the mistakes of Britney Spears then what is the point of her? 

Despite Jeff's best efforts he has had to put up with me asking for basically the same haircut for the last seven years. It must be very unsatisfying for him, but I like to think I make up for it by telling funny stories of a highly personal nature while I'm in the chair. Yes folks, Jeff knows where the bodies are buried.

Seriously, if I were ever to write the screenplay for a thriller I would have the detective in charge head straight to the murderered hottie's hairstylist for all the goss.

So I guess what I'm saying is that I am really boring and will pretty much never do anything interesting with my hair because my mother scarred me for life and because my crowning glory is so much a part of how I see myself that I wouldn't feel like the same person without it.  And also that acid-wash is bad and that if I ever get really, really famous I might have to pay my hairdresser hush money.

So, now interested in hearing if you're attached to your follicular output in the same way that I am?  I'm expecting there may be a bit of a gender divide on this one, but I'm often surprised so it may not be as straightforward as all that.  Are there any other components to your physical or psychological make-up that you strongly associate yourself with?

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