So I chopped my hair off this weekend. All of it. Gone.
And I dyed it blonde. Like mad blonde.
And I really like it.
So that's sweet.
But leading up to this awesome new hairstyle, I contemplated for weeks—weeks—on how I should cut it.
I annoyed the hell out of Lily by asking her everyday, "What about this one?" as I shoved yet another pixie-esque haircut in her face.
The more that I asked, the less enthusiastic her responses became.
So I turned to my colleagues at work. What do you think about this one?
Feedback was positive.
OMG, yes, do it! It'll be perfect for summer.
And of course, I asked myself one million times, what about this one?
I asked myself this question so many times that my screen time on Pinterest for the last 7 days was 5h 14m. And that’s just the last 7 days. Remember what I said about weeks?
I knew my response was the only one that truly mattered.
But I couldn’t shake the indecision.
I was stuck. I was in some sort of decision paralysis about my hair.
What if I don't like it? What if I regret it?
"It'll grow back," I'd say to myself, "Hair is hair."
And yeah, I thought, hair is hair.
But sometimes hair is identity. And sometimes hair is confidence.
And sometimes, I thought... hair is a veil.
—Huh?—
Hair is a veil. Hair is a veil. Hair is a veil.
Spare me for a second:
When cancer patients lose their hair, they lose a part of themselves—their old selves, their healthy selves. They look in the mirror and often times they do not like what they see. They see a sick body. They see… the truth.
I don’t dare compare myself to someone with cancer. However, I would like to amuse you all with the idea that pain comes from our willful denial of the truth.
Hair is a veil.
Okay, we got that. But what do veils do?
Veils conceal. Veils hide.
And what on earth do I have to hide?
When my whole mantra, my whole aim in life, is to seek truth no matter how ugly it is—no matter how much we believe that truth must hide and lurk and fit itself into ugly places. Truth is always there in the nooks and crannies of the more romantic esthetic. Truth lies bare, naked, vulnerable.
Truth is indifferent to the events of the world. Trust cares not what makes us hurt, what makes us laugh, what makes us angry to our core. Truth just is.
And it is our job to uncover it, to strip it clean of its decor, to reveal it like a magician reveals his newest magic trick.
And maybe this all sounds too metaphorical.
But what is life but a bunch of metaphors? One after another after another after another?
And maybe this all sounds like I'm stoned, to which I'll respond, I most definitely was.
And maybe that makes me lose credibility, to which I'll say: fuck all the way off.
(More on that later ^)
But maybe that's exactly what I needed to realize.
That truth demands to be seen away from the veils that we so desperately impose on it.
And my truth was that I wanted to cut my hair mad short. And I wanted my hair to be mad blonde.
So what did I do?
I sat my happy ass down on the salon chair and watched as my long brown hair was cut to tiny strands and pieces. Then I sat some more and watched as the brown turned to blonde.
And the whole time I was sitting (you sit a lot when you're getting your hair done), I had a cheeky smile on my face because this weird metaphor is how I want to live my life—unafraid, bold, assertive. Seeking truths.
And it made me happy. Happy because I had made a choice that aligned with my aim in life. Happy because my hair came out fucking awesome. Happy because the truth is all there is, and the truth is beautiful.
Peace! :-)