Sunday Scribblings #11 – Hair (unconditional love)

Hair and unconditional love. How could they possibly be related?

I offer you some examples.

1. One day, not so long ago, I was testing edges
I was going through a rebellious ‘in your face’ phase
Well, not a phase really.
Describing it as a phase doesn’t honour the importance of that time.
It was more like a plea to be noticed.
To be recognized.
Most of all to be accepted, no holds barred.

On this particular day (I was 32, I think, and it was probably a Saturday), I was at my mom’s place.
Understand, dear reader, that even at the best of times being with family can be implosive.
So that day, in the desparate and needy state I was in, I was more likely than ever to be set off.

I was helping in the kitchen.
Challenging my mom, I asked “what would you think if I dyed my hair blue?”

I so wanted to do this. I also wanted to shave my head and wear unusual clothing.

“Well”, she said with a look of disapproval “I wouldn’t be happy”.

My mom, although not British, said those words with the sterness of a proper English lady.
I looked out the window expecting to see the Thames or Big Ben on the skyline.

My filter turned those words into “I don’t accept you if you don’t fit into a certain mould.”

And then we had tea and scones and pretended nothing was wrong.
That was familiar.
The silent tears salted my tea.
I didn’t like it that way.

2. Early one morning, after a run, I cut my hair off.

Big clumps of it.

I had this solid technique.
It involved grabbing a fistful and wedging the scissors between my hand and my scalp. Wherever the scissors landed was where I cut.
As the scissors crunched through chunks, I watched the bathroom sink turn brown. I was annoyed by the random bits that stuck to my sweaty skin.

It was an impulsive and franctically executed haircut. It was one of those self destructive urges that I had quite regularly back then. Anger was seething through me, and this felt like the right way to express it.

Paul was away at the time.
What I remember about his return home was that what I’d done didn’t matter one bit.
There was no big reaction, no drama about the drastic makeover.

Just love.
Only love.