I have a bit of attention deficit disorder when it comes to my hair. I don’t like to go two days in a row with the same hair style, and once a haircut has been around too long, I don’t hesitate to change it… drastically. So I found myself, last Friday afternoon, in an intimidating, fancy hair salon. “What would you like me to do?” Cedric the stylist asked with a smile. I reached for my mom’s phone from underneath the plastic salon cape. “I want to have the hairstyle in this picture,” I said as I showed him the phone. But that was just a euphemism for “Cut it ALL off.”
This was not the first time I’ve had a drastic haircut. In third grade I wanted to get a haircut. “Why don’t you donate it?” my mom suggested. A few of my friends had done this before. So the day before my school’s picture day, a sweet hair stylist chopped 10 1/2 inches of hair from my head. “I’m never doing this again,” I swore, as my hair barely came past my ear. And then the June before eighth grade, a sweet hair stylist chopped 12 inches off my head. Again I swore against ever donating my hair again. Then a week ago, it was rather hot and my long hair looked especially boring, but this time I came more prepared. I looked at short hair styles online and carefully consulted my sister and mother. I was done with 1970s boy haircuts.
This donation was the first time I wanted to give my hair to a specific person. Earlier this year, my Aunt Kathy was diagnosed with breast cancer. Though my hair probably isn’t enough for a whole wig, I’d like it to contribute to a wig for her, or at least make my hair donation in her honor. I have yet to mail my hair in yet, so Aunt Kathy has first dibs.
Instead of swearing against my hair donations, which was unrealistic to begin with, I have decided to set a hair donation goal for myself. By the end of my life I’d like to donate at least my height in hair. So far I’ve donated 33 inches of my hair; if I’m done growing that means I only have 39 inches to go. So, today marks the beginning of a new crop.