Reinventing the Will

Posted by Will on August 18, 2011

I am very image conscious. It is certainly one of my many flaws. Admittedly, the following screed is one filled with self-pity and is generally an ode to a fallen institute.

Over the years, the physical feature that has probably defined me the most has been my hair and how it was styled.

Sometime during my freshman year in high school, during the kickoff of my punk listening days, I found a CD liner photo of a bleached blond elaborately coifed bassist and took it to my middle-aged stylist, who coincidentally, also fashioned my mother’s hair, to emulate the whiz-bang cutting to the best of her ability. Thus the spiked doo was spawned to live, for a period of time, in high school notoriety.

I could probably dedicate at least 1,000 words to chronicle the literal rise of my hair but that would be more self-serving than anything.

During the summer, between Freshman Orientation at UGA and my move in to McWhorter Hall (R.I.P.), I decided, for reasons I’m still uncertain of, to grow my hair out (I still got the occasional red and blonde streaks that hade become a standard along with hirsute stalagmites). By the time that first fall semester rolled around, I had tresses almost to my shoulders. Haircuts became less frequent and my mane grew to a ungainly depth and unfortunate (the opinion of some, especially my grandmother) length. In short, it was a celebration of hair; wild, untamed, uncultivated hair. And you know what? I ate it up.

Through my collegiate years, I had the occasional trim (whether it be from a friend or a pro) but the fashion never really wavered from being “long”. Although, there was the unfortunate time I went to Great Clips and received what was later coined “The Reverse Mullet” (party in the front, business in the back). I believe that is the last time I paid a “professional” under $10 for a haircut. Never again.

It has now been four years since graduating from college but I never really progressed past the long swooping hair. Sure, I have had a lot of pressure (primarily from Brittany) to try something a little shorter and for periods I have acquiesced. Yet, I never took that direction to another level.

One thing I did discover though is that the best person to cut a man’s hair is a man. Men, if you need a good recommendation for a hair stylist in D.C., just let me know.

Two things physically occurred since I moved up to the Delmarva area. The first was I was inspired by Brittany to take up running, at least, semi-seriously.

When we spent our last few months in Athens right after we got married, we did some jogging together at the State Botanical Garden of Georgia. But, it wasn’t until we moved into the concrete jungles of the District that we ran consistently. Since then, I dropped the fried chicken and PBR lunches, started to eat moderately more healthy, and got more active (thus dropping 40 – 50 pounds; yes, I weighed 235 when we moved onto 10th Street). Biking and walking to work and being carless also helped.

That coincided with a noticeable thinning of my hair in the front, the second physical change (at least, from my perspective).

Now, those of you who knew me since high school might point to the numerous hair products I used to achieve those two inch long prongs of hair. Indeed, there was a lot of chemical product used to achieve the hold required to establish my skyscrapers of mane. There is no argument there. Or you could suggest the coloration processes my hair endured (yes, my hair did change four different colors within a 72 hour period once) may be the foundation to my calamity.

But I don’t think the cause is chemical (from a man-made manufactured sense).

Or you could call it an ironic twist of fate (that would probably be a bit more accurate).

Honestly, I don’t know what the change stems from. I have no clue regarding my medical history, what my blood relatives’ hairlines look like but I would be willing to be it’s hereditary (speaking of, in a adopted sense, losing hair would fall inline with my Mom’s side of the family anyway).

Yet, that’s neither here nor there. This issue is really about acceptance. For all of the building up of my hair (and in this case, my ego), this is about coming to grips with change and accepting it.

I’m fairly comfortable with my body but this was an issue that really struck a chord with me. This was a change I was not ready for. This was a cruel destiny afforded to me which simply was not fair (right?).

It’s been a week since I took a pair of clippers to my head. It took me an hour but hey, cutting your own hair ain’t the easiest thing in the world.

Part of my doesn’t know what I was so worried about. True, it’s obvious my hair has receded and thinned in the front but at the end of the day, that’s just who I am. The other part mourns my loss when I glance at my reflection in the Metro car window in the mornings.

But really, truthfully, I’m over it. I have more important things to worry about and have greater things that define me.

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