The haircut.

I haven’t gotten a proper haircut in over a year and with sfira approaching, it was definitely time.

There’s a small, modest hair salon run by two guys down the block from my apartment. I got off the bus from work, after a long, painful day, and walked straight in, told the waiting hairdresser what I wanted in a humility-shade of Hebrew, sat in the chair and let someone else take charge for the first time in a while.

Growing up, haircuts were always big deals. Maybe because I’m my mother’s only daughter, and she was proud to ‘teach me the ways’ of makeup, hair and a sense of (some sort of) fashion. I went to fancy places to get my hair cut with my mom since I can remember. The first time I dyed my own hair – at 15 with hydrogen peroxide in summer camp – my mother went nuts. When I continued to dye my own hair (with lemon juice, facial bleach and colour-out-of-the-box), she started taking me to salons to get it dyed, too. Essentially, since high school, I’ve been getting my hair cut ‘n coloured at fairly nice salons where looks are everything and a lot of it is about ‘the experience’.

I can’t say that these were enjoyable occasions; I always loved my hair afterward but hated the anxious build-up to each session. Sometimes I’m just a guy, and can’t be bothered to pour so much emotion into my looks. Somehow, though, emotion got poured in every time. I also didn’t like not having control, letting someone else shape such a crucial part of my self-identity. Thus, haircuts were associated with emotional anxiety.

Living on my own in a foreign country, I have to be in control of so much when I really don’t want to be and I have to give up control so often when I really don’t want to. As well, every aspect of my life here is fraught with exploratory emotion: Will I make it here at the end of the day? Do I want to?

I guess that’s why when I walked into the little neighborhood salon I signed and let him have at it. He looked like he had a long day, too. I knew I was ultimately in control since I made a decision to give my hair to him, ridding me of the guilt for not being in control. The emotion was missing because both of us were tired, just existing, and I knew I had no one invested in this to please beside myself.

He kept offering mousse, fan, whatever, and I kept saying it was b’seder how it is. Just do what you do, let me be. No control, anxious-free.


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