Wednesday, April 9, 2008


I'm donating my hair tomorrow. I have been growing it since 2003. It's below my waist right now. If I put my arm behind me, I can grab a handful of it without twisting or turning or reaching. Although I have become very attached to it recently, it's also an albatross. I wash it every other day because it takes so long. Wash, rinse, condition, rinse, leave-in conditioner, comb through takes about an hour. I rarely blow dry so my head is wet a lot of the time.

For most women, their hair is their security blanket. So many people tell me I have beautiful hair. And I do. It's black with not a trace of grey (touch wood!), it's perfectly straight and shiny like paint on a new car. It's very low maintenance in the grand scheme of things but the little I have to do to take care of it takes precious time out of my (clearly!) busy schedule. I can't just get up and go every morning. Every second shower requires planning. I try not to sleep over at Grey's on the nights before I know I have to wash it because he doesn't have a lot of patience for that. And if I have to be up early for work or whatever, I stay up late the night before to wash it. I hate this girly girl aspect of my life. But I feel obligated to take care of my hair because I know it's going to someone who wants it.

My master plan was to grow it out and then donate it. And also to shave my head. I figure I could raise about $5000 by shaving my head. But I don't have time to do the kind of fund raising I would want to do right now. Maybe I'll do it when I go back to work. Or perhaps a better idea is to just grow it out and donate it every year. It's a ridiculously easy thing to do.

I know I will miss it when it's gone. I have come close to cutting it off a couple of times recently and every time I have chickened out. I do like knowing it's there. It forms a great bun at the back of my head. But it's also very heavy. I know it's time for it to go. So I'm going to cut 10 inches tomorrow. That should take it to shoulder length or a bit shorter. I think that Larry, my strong, silent and brilliantly gay hairdresser, will be sadder than I to part with it. He runs his fingers through it in a way that makes me believe that my hair is the reason he became a hairdresser.

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