It’s early Sunday morning and I sit with my coffee, enjoying the early part of the day. This is a restful, reflective time for me. On the days I don’t have to rush off to work I like to take my dog out, open the patio door and listen to the birds singing, and enjoy a cup of coffee while I think about my day. Sometimes I make myself breakfast. Sometimes I turn on the morning news. Sometimes I just sit on the patio and try not to think about anything too heavy. Always I am thankful for another start. Today as the cool air rushes into my living room from the open doorway, I feel it a little more than usual. I feel lighter, exposed. That’s because I am. You see, yesterday… I got a bad haircut.

It’s all gone. There is a thin covering of hair left on my head, just enough to be able to say that yes, I have hair. When I say my hair is short, I mean I resemble my brother moreso than I ever have in my life. I did not ask for this. I did not have this in mind when I walked into the salon. I would never have chosen this. Having inherited my father’s very fine, very thin hair I have always tried to hang on to what little hair I had and applied different strategies over the years to make it appear fuller. It’s always been hit or miss with my hair. It was very frustrating when I was younger and always wished for the full head of hair I saw on other girls. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve learned to accept what I was given and roll with it and I’ve been happy with that. I’ve come to be satisfied with what I was given and like myself as I am. So when I tell you that I have almost no hair, this comes from someone who never had much hair to begin with. And what I am telling you is, I have very little hair left.

I blame myself a little bit. I sat down in the chair with a stylist I’d never met before and didn’t pay attention. All of a sudden my cute pixie cut turned into a high and tight. It happened so quickly. Now here we are. It’s done and there is no fixing this, it’s just going to have to grow back. When I first looked in the mirror, I felt nauseous. I felt shell shocked. In a daze I paid for my haircut and walked out to my car, my mind racing. How did this happen? Why wasn’t I paying closer attention? How in the world did that stylist think this resembled a pixie cut? So many questions.

As far as hair disasters go, I guess I’m lucky. This is only the second time in my entire life I’ve had a complete hair disaster. The first time it happened I was about 19. I had long blonde hair at the time, thin as it was. I’d gone to get a perm for some body and they left me sitting too long which resulted in a frizzy bride-of-Frankenstein look. Of course it’s worse with thin hair, because when thin hair gets that frizzy you can see right through it as if it’s just a thin veil of substance. I remember running to the bathroom in tears and trying to wet my hair down to wash out any remaining chemicals in an attempt to salvage some of my hair. I was half crying, half laughing at the ridiculousness of my hair. Of course it calmed down in a day or two and I was able to style it somewhat normally and move on with my life. But this, this is different. There is no way to tame this or make it look like I have more hair on my head than I do. This is my life now for a few weeks until it starts growing out. I have mixed feelings about it.

So I’ve already started making jokes about myself. “This is my lumberjack phase”. “Just call me fella”. “My brother and I are twinsies now”. While it’s not what I wanted, ever… something unexpected happened. I’ve come to realize I have a love/hate feeling about this haircut. I hate that something took away the little hair that I had. I hate that it’s so short. And yet, it’s kind of freeing. I’m in the part of my life where I have hot flashes, and last night I actually slept a little cooler due to my lack of a head covering. I feel lighter. We as women associate so much with our hair, and yet with mine all gone I feel a different kind of femininity. I feel powerful. It’s as if this thinning hair that I’ve struggled with my whole life no longer has any power over me. It’s like a giant slap in the face to everything that we think hair has to mean and represent. I am more than my hair. I am more than my looks. It’s as if I’ve just been reminded of that. As I sit in front of a mirror with little hair and aging skin and slight wrinkles, I am still me. With everything I’ve come to rely on seeing in the mirror every day gone, I am still here and still the same. It changes nothing really. Maybe this is a lesson I had to learn. Maybe I had to let go of a little vanity in order to appreciate the things that matter. That’s not a bad thing.

Tomorrow I have to go back to work and face people with this lack of hair. I’m not sure how I feel about that, a little anxious to tell the truth. Yet I have this “what’s done is done” attitude. Of all the hardships that life can throw into our path, a bad haircut is really very menial. Yes, I am the person I see in the mirror. But I am so much more than that. Hair grows. Maybe I will too.