By Way of Hellos

There's something eternal about summer.  Whether it's the pervasive heat, the long days, the good timey feeling that we hope might last forever.  The same goes for winter; that inescapable thought that this snow and slush and bone chilling cold will never go away.  Autumn and Spring, however, are acutely fleeting.  We cherish every fallen leaf, every new bud.  Time is palpably finite.

All that said, it's HOT and while the September issues are hitting the stands with the promise of sweater season round the bend, all I can think about is summer.  And more summer.  And chopping off my hair.

I have that brand of Japanese hair that notoriously clogs sinks and ruins expensive vacuum cleaners.  The kind of hair that lies wonderfully flat and thick and shiny and feels like a wool blanket over my neck and shoulders in the heat.  Drawn up into a bun or a ponytail, it gives me headaches.

My hair has grown into its own kind of personal enemy; the love-hate relationship every woman seems to carry for her locks.  For minorities, I feel the paradoxical nature is amplified by personal and cultural expectations.  I feel burdened by this instant symbol of my Asian heritage displayed on my head, which turns the question 'to cut or not to cut?' into a introspective spiral.

Not to mention the ghosts of haircuts past that haunt me still.  My childhood mullet-esque chop, the time I saw The Babysitters Club movie and begged my mom to take me to Supercuts and get the Rachel Leigh Cook bob that turned out lopsided, the "I'm a cheap student" haircut from the Vidal Sassoon Academy where no matter what I asked for I was given the haircut they were learning at the time.  Two of my friends went at different times to the Academy and we all ended up (magically) with the exact same haircut.  Not pleasant.  Then there's the "old lady" haircut I seem to get whenever I do my bi-annual hair donation cut that never looks quite like the Sienna Miller shag pixie I imagined.  And of course, the DIY jobs in college that looked exactly like they were done in front of a poorly lit mirror with blunt scissors after watching All the Real Girls, no thanks to the hopelessly adorable Zooey Deschanel. 

I'm trying to teach myself that life is short and beauty is fleeting, so walk properly.  One foot rooted in the ground, while the other steps forward.  Yes, my hair is my glory and I am fiercely proud of my heritage, but a modern woman, a modern minority woman, should embrace the adventure of fashion and step out of the mold that was crafted by generations past.  Isn't that how you give your roots wings?

That said, I will get my hair cut soon.  And make a blog-day of it.

Yours,
Edith