My Hairstory: The Day I Realized I Don’t Like Short Hair
It all started on a drizzly, yet hopeful middle school day. I truly believe this story may be the key to understanding many of my intimacy issues.
I was in home room sitting at my usual seat, right-center, and two rows back. I didn’t want to seem obsequious nor did I want to seem like a kid who has behavior problems. On this particular damp and slight chilly autumn morning I waited with my heart beating a little elevated and my skin feeling flush. I nervously tapped my heels as I counted down the minutes, it was now 8:27 am and class started promptly at 8:29. Although I was known to be a bit anxious for the future in general and I tended to arrive early to my junior high classes while others casually strolled in at the bell. I couldn’t help but think the teacher may hold that against them at a later date on a grading scale. Again, what do I know. I admit there’s another reason I’d come in early and sit farther back than my status at the school dictated. It was to watch *her* walk in. All slim, needy, brace-face cuteness. Your average 13 year old in every way. Except to me she was special. Because she also had *THAT hair* you all know exactly what I’m talking about. The hair you dream over and lust about seeing and touching. Since I was still in the throes of adolescence the closest I’d been to a girl my age was my cousin who was 15. We had to share a bed at the budget motel. Even she made a barricade of pillows between us. I guess I was a little different, I didn’t need hugs, and I wasn’t really sure what sex was. What I longed for was the touch of a woman’s… hair. And her hair was the best I’d ever seen. This was the hair I dreamt about ever so fervently. More often than not having those special fantasies only a teenage boy can attest to waking up to with recent frequency. Her hair was golden blonde, it was a bit wavy and looked as soft and shiny as my mom’s Sunday silk neckties. It was also much longer than the other girls at my school. Many of them were young enough that they still had embarrassing cheap haircuts. The popular girls typically had long, highlighted hair. Even after all the time spent in the salon theirs didn’t compare. Hers was bouncy and soft. Perfectly trimmed on the ends. It had volume and a soft wave, which at times frizzed out cutely near her ears and hairline. It was so long that when she sat down much of it would fall on my desk while I’d watch it, marveling at its beauty and how unique it was. Eventually she’d reach back for it, cruelly tying it up. Or she’d move her head enough it would fall off my desk, yet still hang over her chair. Id always be tempted to reach out and touch it or twirl it with my pen. But so far I’d resisted during all 27 home room periods I’ve sat in this seat. I was glad this was my home room class so I could spend all 20 minutes staring at it uninterrupted. I was a good enough student I didn’t ever get cold-called on and I volunteered often enough to avert suspicion that I had other things on my mind, and desk for that matter. Today was different though, I realized, she didn’t come to class. Maybe she was sick, flu season was just starting after all: I chose to take the time earning back my credibility in the class by raising my hand at every opportunity. I made sure I said goodbye to my teacher, Mr. Ramirez, and made my way out to the hall. The rest of the day went on uneventfully and that night I made sure to catch up on extra sleeping time to make up for what I’d missed in home room, also enough time to hide the evidence of one of my deep, deep dreams about her. I woke up satisfied and felt robust and ready to take on the day. Even the 9th grade bully who wouldn’t let me sit with him, thus forcing me to triple up with two “sevie losers” in the front of the bus get me down. I once again thought about it, running through my hand, her laughing as we ran together through the baseball field where I sometimes caught her watching me play for the past three summers. We stumbled up a steep dirt path and fell in each other’s arms giggling incessantly. I ran my fingers through her hair, cleaning out the dirt. She looked at me and I looked at her, we inched closer until I was jolted back to reality when the bus came to grinding halt and the short haired angry bus driver shrieked “get off my bus!” As I have always looked on the bright side of things I realized I was going to be the first off the bus. A few extra minutes to spare meant I could grab a chocolate milk in the cafeteria without missing out on my favorite part of the day. Plus the thoughts I was having were causing me to feel lightheaded and I needed carbohydrates to bring me back: As I stood in line I thought about talking to her today, “why not”, I thought. After all, she came to many of my baseball games over the summer, granted it could’ve been to watch someone else. But why then, did she choose to sit in front of me instead of Christian Ojeda, who also played weekly youth baseball games at the same field. He, too, was in our home room and he was taller than me. His voice didn’t break from time to time. She was certainly pretty enough to get his attention and move up a caste rather than stay in the proletariat class of my junior high. Maybe she was waiting for me to make the first move. I once again cursed this blatant Hollywood yellow journalism and decided it would be the day I took charge. I fixed my cardigan buttons and patted down my dark curly hair, which may still be one of my best features. One I still use to this day in my search for the ever elusive *one.* she wouldn’t be able to resist me today, I had a new attitude and nothing would bring me down. I strolled into home room at my usual 8:24, uncapped my chocolate milk and waited, hoping today would be the day home room would let out early and I’d have no excuse not to walk with her to her locker and talk. I looked toward the door again as I often did while waiting for this moment, Suddenly, as if in slow motion I felt like I got a punch in my gut. It was worse than the time I bulleted down a ski slope on my first run and woke up in front of a tree. But even in that memory she existed as she did then. In this memory I woke with a group of people around. Yet all I saw clearly was her long blonde gleaming hair, reaching toward me as she called me name telling me to wake up. Suddenly I realized my teacher was also calling me in role call. “Present” I said as if in a daze. I felt dizzy again and my vision wasn’t clear. I saw an unfamiliar and quite unatttactive short haired human sitting in front of me. Suddenly I heard, “affirmative,“ in her characteristically cute and unconventional retort to rolecall. I rubbed my eyes, and took another look. Why was this person who has short cut wavy golden hair wearing my crush’s sweater. I realized then much to my horror that it was in fact *her.* Rather than a loose flow of perfect golden curls I saw her pimply neck. It was very short. The kind of haircut some girls in elementary school got to donate to kids with cancer. Junior high girls were typically much too vain for such a gesture and I hadn’t seen anyone make that confusing choice in years. Time suddenly started again and I caught the look of disgust in my teachers face almost as if it was hard to believe. “What a pretty hair cut you have” he stammered and quickly turned flushed and faced the white board the rest of the home room. As I had hoped for, we did get out 8 minutes early. This was unheard of. But instead of excitement I suddenly felt like I couldn’t move. My legs were like jello. I took a sip of chocolate milk and waited patiently for her to get up. “It’s ok,” I thought,”She wasn’t my type anyway.” One time I saw her best friend smoking cigarettes by the bike racks at lunch time. You are the company you keep. If her best friend liked cancer sticks, she probably eventually would too. “Hey,” I heard in a soft voice. She had turned around to me and I got the full view. Her hair was appropriately named a bob because she looked like a man. The only thing that kept it girly was the pink and purple streaks in front. “Did you catch the World Series last night?” “No, I hate baseball,” I said dryly, hoping she would get the hint. “Oh” she said, and she quickly got up and rushed out the door. I never saw her again, perhaps we did cross paths, but after this encounter I remember nothing. After she walked out the door for the last time in my psyche, I snapped out of my daze, I slammed my chocolate milk on my desk like a blue-collar alcoholic during happy hour. I slowly got up, straightened out my shirt and put my backpack on. I walked out the door and from then on everything felt a little heavier, a little darker. Sure maybe that was due to the change of seasons. But I also think of it as the time I changed. I never quite went back to being that same imaginative boy. I’ve needed therapy because in my relationships I fear she will leave me and so I leave her. But remembering this nightmare as I once again wake up with cold sweats in my 34th year of life makes me feel like perhaps I don’t trust my mates enough to stick around *with their hair* I now know that short hair is something I can’t stomach. Yet it also remains a taboo subject for men to discuss openly about women. Society dictates that I can’t comment on another’s personal choice. I should love someone for who they are, not what they look like. Maybe I fear becoming too attached to another long hair only to have it taken away from me without even my input. Anyway, ever since that moment I realized the one that I love could easily disappoint me through no fault of her own. I realize that I am alone in this struggle for now while o learn how to appropriately handle women, I realize that if I want something I have to work for it. In my case it also has to be under my control. Luckily after 10 years of slaving away and investing well I’m finally able to purchase a long haired companion. I can also change her hair whenever I feel like I need some spice in our relationship. She cannot leave or cut her hair because she is a robot. So my friends, if you are in the same boat as I am and you don’t like short hair, you have two choices. You can become Pygmalion and create your perfect wife out of silicone (what most women consist of anyway right?) and a posable wired frame. Or you can risk getting berated by a woman for stating your opinion or worse yet get stuck with a wife who cuts her hair short out of spite. What will you choose?