The first time

The first time I cut my hair short was at a provincial campsite in Oakville. It was the closest park to the city that offered camping, and as we pulled in I saw that a luxury real estate project was being built right next to the park. If you look on google maps you can probably see it finished now. My family and two others parked our minivans in a little cubbyhole of a campsite. My dad was put in charge of dinner, and I’m fairly certain that we ate nothing but pit-barbecued short ribs that night. I hung out in a tent with my sister and our good friend. I think they were rolling around posing for silly photos. If you look at the photos you can see how static from the polyester of the tent and the sleeping bags had built up in their hair.

I had been thinking about cutting it for a long time. What it meant, and how it would feel. How I would be. As the sky faded, I asked them to do it. My sister asked me how I wanted it cut. I said, anything short. We went out behind the car and I stood very still. Faithfully, they proceeded with kitchen scissors by the light of a small flashlight. They said the hairstyle they were giving me was called the “A-line”. If you look it up, I believe it’s a real style. They found it hard to cut evenly without proper lighting or tools. Apart from protecting my ears, I didn’t really care. I just wanted to hear those long, dark locks hit the grass behind my feet. When they were done, I turned around and the severed locks formed a satisfying pile. I had done it, and I started to think about what I’d done.

I had expected it to feel like a substantial physical weight released. But it wasn’t that, just a neater and cleaner feeling. A load off my mind. When I turned my head, my hair did not lag. It did not fan out like when you spin around while wearing a dress. I expected to never have it itch my back or neck again, but I experienced phantom itches for some time afterwards. On the bright side, my peripheral vision had never been better.

When we got home, I spent hours in the bathroom with my new short hair. Just more observing. It was something of a hack job, but a hack in the right direction. My eyes looked different. My whole face was something else, foreign crossed with familiar. Like déjà vu, I was thinking “Don’t I know you from somewhere?” at my own image. I was who I had been straining in the mirror to see for so long.

It was a learning experience. When I wore a cap for extended periods, my hair became oddly compressed. Okay, so short hair is more easily persuaded. When I raised my eyebrows, my bangs shifted back and forth. Never noticed that before. When I woke up in the morning, I no longer found myself gagging on loose strands. When school started again, people said I looked like a… exactly what I was going for. And on my paper route, neighbors started to call me “son”. And sometimes, “sport”.

Advertisement