Short Hair
When I was in Grade One I had beautiful long blonde hair down to my waist. For reasons I cannot explain I loved my hair, its colour, the weight on my neck and back, and the way others in class would play and be fascinated by it. In my teen years I was told my hair had flecks of gold which sparkled in the light. This was such a beautiful compliment and in direct contrast with me believing my hair should be a different colour.*
Given the above reference I have many times felt it really makes no sense why at this age I loved my blond hair. Perhaps it had more to do with the attention rather than its colour. Over the years I was often told my hair was beautiful and so I suppose compliments went a long way to comforting me, living in a world of constant criticism at home.
Even so, it did not change this feeling whenever I saw my hair in a mirror. As I grew older I always yearned to see my hair dark rather than blonde. After my ayahuasca ceremony I was told I had long white hair in direct reference to my beautiful past, now largely forgotten. Realizing the connection this has to the woman in the dragon dream, I now understand why I loved my long blond hair as a child.
Even when we do not remember important details from our past, in this case, my life with the people who truly loved me, these events are part of our being and give nudging reminders we cannot always justify or define. The importance of the triggers should not be underestimated for they are the threads which connect us to our past, even though it may be locked away in a closet.
While I was in Grade One Helen took me to the hairdresser, not telling me her plan, nor did she ask for my permission. Upon her instruction the hairdresser gave me a pixie cut. When she was finished all my beautiful hair lay in a tangle of golden strands on the floor. I felt powerless and ashamed.
Helen often made comments about how much work it was to care for my hair and how she hated brushing it out in the morning. She complained often, of course, unconcerned about how that would make me feel. The short hair was for her benefit, not mine. To add insult to this deep felt injury, I was expected to attend a friend’s birthday party immediately following the visit to the hairdresser. I felt naked and small and found it difficult to face anyone. I believed I was being punished for some unknown reason and was extremely uncomfortable so kept to myself for the entire party. There I was, all alone in a crowded room, my dignity shorn, my future uncertain….just the way they liked it.
Some years later when I began ballet lessons I was once again allowed to grow my hair, because it was expected to be worn in the traditional ballet bun. I suppose because of the forced manner in which my hair was cut, not my personal choice, it became a powerful trigger throughout my adult life. When I became depressed or felt I couldn’t carry any more sorrow, I would cut my hair….and then hate myself for self inflicted punishment.
It was a suicidal sign and Helen was an expert at triggering my personal depression. She could easily turn any brilliantly happy mood into thoughts of self harm within minutes. She spoke only of my faults, constantly reminding me of my endless shortfalls. She was instrumental in reinforcing my fear of failure and my inability to do things right. To this day I harbour great fear of making a mistake, feeling shame for all my imperfections.
In the end I had to walk away from this family. If I hadn’t I would not be telling this story. Though she is thankfully long gone I can sometimes hear Helen’s nagging voice. Her memory left shadows I have worked hard to banish….still many triggers are associated with her ill treatment.
How many times in my youth did I hear I was ugly, stupid, and unwanted? Yet my siblings saw me as spoiled and called me, The Princess. If I received a new coat or new shoes their comments came from a jealousy I could not understand, leaving me feeling guilty and dirty. As a point of interest, I have recently started cutting my hair short— without being triggered, a true sign of how far I have come.
I do miss my long hair, but I enjoy having it short and no longer see myself as less than whole with this new style. It was after all not the length of my hair but the negative emotions tied to that debilitating experience. I have been able to sever the threads which kept me under their control. Another shard returned.
*see Readings, chapter I
0 Comments