Its Just Hair

Webster's dictionary defines hair as
1. any of the numerous fine, usually cylindrical keratinous filaments growing from the skin of humans and animals
2. a filamentous outgrowth of the epidermis

TLC Style reported in an article about the physics behind hair coloring, that except for the few cells growing at the root, hair is, in laments terms, dead tissue.

So hair is actually pretty disgusting, biologically speaking, and I was sporting an obscene amount of dark brown dead tissues in strand-like form. But I loved my dark brown dead tissue.

Family photo (minus Nicholas) at my cousin Amanda's absolutely fabulous wedding.

I've always loved my hair; we had a delightfully symbiotic relationship. It kept me warm through the blistery winter wrapping its thick sturdy strands around my neck like a botanical scarf. It was always in a magnificent mood but even when it was having a bad day it would still let me manage it by blasting it with hot air and sticking it between two scalding metal plates. It didn't get angry with my 14-year-old self when I ironed it; it patiently waited its turn after dad's jeans and mom's collared shirts. Lately it was long enough to cover up an exposed bra strap or too much cleavage. It was versatile and flexible, two qualities hard to find in people let alone hair. It looked good pin straight or in curls.

In return I would let it breathe on the weekends, free of product and hot tools. I tried to steer clear of my boyfriend's incessant need to pluck the poor white ones from its brothers and sisters. I thought I had a decent balance of natural oils and cleanliness, even though my parents probably beg to differ.

It boosted my self confidence. Sometimes I would pretend I was in one of those Pantene Pro-V commercials; the ones where women would flip their long luxurious shiny hair back and forth as it cascaded down their backs like furry waterfalls. My hair wasn't just expired cells, it was my sexy blanket. Any time I had a zit the size of Lake Tahoe, I thought at least I have pretty hair. Whenever I felt like my love handles were big enough to have their own area code I thought to myself its okay at least people compliment my hair. Simply, it made me feel hot. (Wow I sound vain).

But it was that Webster's dictionary definition that I needed to repeat over and over in my head when I walked into Toni's Barber Shop on Mill Road in Westhampton Beach. People always gawk at me when I tell them I, a woman, get my hair cut at a barber shop. Well, for your information barbers no more than how to shape up side burns and give buzz cuts.

Toni's is this tiny building tucked tightly behind Westhampton Beach town and its overflowing with local culture, smiling faces, and wagging tails (Mildred and Bernie, Toni's two dogs are always happy to entertain customers). Toni's gives Westhampton a feisty undertone of authenticity. I feel like I'm walking into a friend's living room, its cozy and inviting and moderately priced. I'm sorry but it is absolutely ridiculous to pay $70 for a haircut and I've gotten some of the best haircuts of my life in this Westhampton Beach treasure.

I have been going to Toni's for over four years so the girls there understand how I am connected to my hair and how my father is as well. He told me if I cut my hair off he was changing the locks on our doors. This coming from a man that forbids me to tuck my hair behind my ear at the dinner table in fear of a strand being set free and making its way all the way across the table into his salad. I would assume short hair would be accepted by him, its less surface area he'd have to worry about but no, "short hair is for old ladies and Doris Day." (Not like I know who that is).

Well thankfully his opinion was busy picking up my brother from school and I took the first of our three appointments. That TLC style report was replaying over and over in my head, along with another realization I had conjured in the car.

Thanksgiving and Christmas are right around the corner and I often feel that the real meaning of the holiday spirit gets lost behind toy trucks and cranberry sauce. I've always loved my hair and the way it made me feel about myself but there are millions of children that don't have the decision to wear their hair curly or straight, up or down. Instead they have to decide which cancer treatment will be the most aggressive or how to explain to their gawking classmates what alopceia areata is (AA is the medical description of unwelcome and involuntary hair loss from the head and body).

I got to enjoy my hair for 22 years, its someone else's turn.

So as Toni separated my hair into four braids I felt my legs start to quiver. A pit grew in the center of my stomach, the same familiar brick I get before I have to speak in front of a class or get on an airplane. I tried to keep my anxiety inside, I mean its just hair, at least I have the luxury of mine growing back. As she picked up those shiny sharp silver scissors, my hands went numb. Snip, snip, snip...I closed my eyes.

When I opened them again, those four braids were lounging on the counter among the stuffed cars and tootsie pops, ready to be wrapped and shipped off to Locks of Love- a non-profit organization that creates wigs for financially disadvantaged children suffering from any type of medical hair loss.

I parted ways with my dark brown dead tissue and felt a warmness surge through my body, but this emotion wasn't one stemming from apprehension. This flutter came from serenity; I helped someone. I hopefully helped a little girl gain the self-assurance I felt when I had looked in the mirror. Hopefully I helped someone get through the day without having to shield themselves from ignorant stares. Maybe I made someone's day just a little bit easier.

And when I went home, my key still worked!