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Letting my freak flag fly

Posted Monday, September 8, 2008

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I cut my hair all off Wednesday. The whole time I was doing it, I could hear Crosby, Stills Nash & Young singing in my head.

Almost cut my hair/
Happened just the other day/
It was getting kind of long/
I coulda said it was in my way/
But I didn’t and I wonder why/
Feel like letting my freak flag fly/

I don’t think that ever applied to women. Anyway, it didn’t stop me. I cut it all off anyway.

I guess it was about a year ago when I decided I would let my hair grow. I can’t remember, now, whether at the time I heard the cast of “Hair!” singing in my head, “Down to here/down to there/down to where/it stops by itself.”

What I do remember is thinking I wanted to have long hair for once. My hair’s never been longer than shoulder-length. It’s rarely been long enough to make a ponytail.

During all the years I worked at newspapers, long hair was just another thing I’d have to deal with, and I already had so much to deal with—kids, job, meals, homework, long hours, early mornings—I rid myself of responsibilities any time I had the chance.

I kept my hair really short during most of those years—too short to curl, or style, or blow dry, or do much of anything with. I washed it, that’s about all. It’s curly when it’s short. Not very sophisticated, but easy.

As I got older, and my hair got grayer, I let it grow into a chin-length bob. This had the advantage of looking a little more sophisticated than short tousled hair, but had the disadvantages of needing to be styled with a blow dryer, and requiring that product be applied to it to keep it that way.

As a rule, the product and styling kept it smooth and bouncy for about two hours every day, after which sweat and humidity and wind would work their magic. Too long to curl, my chin-length bob would retaliate by plastering itself to my skull, or turning into a frizzy cloud around my head.

Some days, when I was too hurried and harried to care about it, I would just get out of the shower and go straight for the plastered or frizzy look, skipping the two hours (about) of good hair the blow dryer and styling products could give me.

When I decided a year or so ago I wanted to experience long hair, the plan had the admirable quality of being a simple one: To get long hair, you just stop cutting it, and wait.

I waited as long as I could. I got to experience the joys of a very small ponytail, the feeling of hair brushing my shoulders, the ability to put it up in curlers and enjoy the result (for about two hours).

I also got to enjoy constantly removing hair from my mouth and eyes, closing it in car doors, and having to do something to it to go out of the house because when nothing was done to it, it just hung there, limp and straight, mocking me.

So on Wednesday, I cut it all off. It’s about two inches long all over. It will learn to curl again in a few days. Until then it will stick out all over my head in little spikes.

When it finishes turning silver, I think I’m going to turn it blue.

My freak flag’s flying high.

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