Long Locks

It can be long, short, brown, red, damaged, or fake. Hair is a way most people express themselves. For me my hair was my identity. I was always known for my long dark brown locks, until I was faced with a tough decision, to donate my hair.

My sophomore year in high school I had long, dark brown, coarse hair that nearly touched my waist, and I was notorious for it. Each day I would wake up wash it, blow dry it, and then straighten it.  Need less to say it was a hassle every morning, but my hair defined me. Due to the fact that my hair was my identity I allowed myself to hide behind it and be nothing more than the girl with the pretty hair.

An assembly was called where all three hundred students of my high school were placed in front of an auditorium. On the stage there were a dozen hairstylists a waiting for brave souls to donate their hair to Locks of Love. Locks of Love is an organization that gathers donations of hair in order to make wigs for cancer patients.  One by one students, faculty, and staff lined up to cut over eight inches of their lovely locks. As I watched these brave souls willfully chop their mop, I became inspired to do the same. I saw the bravery in their actions, and wanted to feel like I made a difference. More importantly though I needed change, I wanted to be more than long hair, I wanted people to know me for who I was rather than what I looked like.

In my head I debated the pros and cons of what would transpire from me cutting my hair. Would I be less feminine? Would it fit my face? What would I be know for, if not my hair?  All of these questions rushed into my head as I waited in line shaking with fear. When it was finally my turn I sat in the chair and looked out to the rest of Alverno High School as they awaited my transformation. There was no turning back, I couldn’t be a coward with three hundred eyes on me. I was too focused on my feelings to even notice what my hairstylist looked liked. All I told her was “cut twelve inches off.” She braided my hair as I tightly cringed my eyes and then snip, snip, snip, it was all gone.  When I opened my eyes everyone cheered as I held my foot long braid in the air. I was proud of myself; I had done a courageous act that I thought I was not capable of.  I felt invincible with my short bob that grazed the middle of my neck.

Before my transformation I allowed for my mane to define who I was. The feeling I received when I cut my hair encouraged me to join the Christian service club and continue this assembly annually. My twelve inches allowed somebody else to feel beautiful and feminine once again. Cutting my hair allowed me to aid myself, but more importantly to do a good deed for someone else.