After two years of planning, preparing, and procrastinating, the day had arrived to follow through with my terrifying intentions.

As always, my trusted friend and artist extraordinaire, Marsha Foster, was at my side, snapping away, asking the hard questions and recording my emotional responses.

To a certain extent, it felt as though I was behind the camera with her; like someone else was walking into the Salon on the Square to have their head shaved.

And yes, I’m not too proud to admit that I did stop for a shot of cherry pie moonshine at the restaurant next door, but Marsha and I decided this little moment of liquid reinforcement should go undocumented.

My decision to allow the Salon on the Square to be part of My Unraveling  is due entirely to the owner and the staff.  Andrea Hammond is one of the most open-minded, big-hearted, empathetic, funny, talented women I’ve ever allowed to touch my head.  Just glancing around her salon at the other professionals she has chosen to work alongside, you instantly realize these people allow themselves to think outside the box.  There’s no judgement.  There’s no “perfection.” There’s only real and genuine and peace.  They are all open to allowing their clientele to be true to themselves, without worrying about societal norms.  I love everything about it!

A couple of weeks earlier I had dropped off the human-hair wig I had sold a kidney to purchase.  My natural hair is extremely curly, so I had asked Andrea to do her best to make the wig as curly as my own hair.  I was VERY concerned that my wig look like my “real” hair, so no one would know it was a wig…because, you know, its not like I’m writing a blog about it or anything?!

Andrea did a wonderful job.  It is a truly beautiful wig.  The company that made it, Freeda Wigs, and Andrea could not have produced a more beautiful, natural looking hair piece.  It is lovely, and I fully believed I was going to wear this wig every day and convince anyone I met on the street that I had this full head of beautiful, curly hair.

After imbibing in intoxicating beverages, discussing the wig, and doing everything else I could think of to procrastinate for just a few more seconds, the time came to bite the bullet, take the plunge, dive in, and git ‘er done.

Even as I sit here, typing the words and inserting the images, my stomach is in knots.  Its been over a month since I sat in that chair, since Andrea turned me away from the mirror, and pulled out the clippers.  The harsh “snap” as she turned them on, followed by the buzzing so close to my ears, are sounds that will forever trigger this memory initiating sweaty palms, a dry mouth and teary eyes.

If I could have, I’m sure I would have jumped up and run straight out of that salon directly into a large bottle of tequila.  What in the hell was I thinking?! Not only was I defying every dictate of our culture’s view of women and their hair, I was removing the one and only coping mechanism that had remained faithful to me throughout my entire life.  If Andrea hadn’t had a firm grip on my head, and if I didn’t know Marsha would have documented proof of my total and utter cowardice, I might have made a break for it. Instead, I sucked it up and kept my ass in that chair, praying I wouldn’t actually die in the process.

And then a strange thing happened. I started to laugh.  The more she shore me like a sheep, the more I felt a burden being lifted.  Of course, my hair felt lighter, but so did my spirit.  It was as if the millstone of my secret was lifted off my shoulders and the curtains were thrown open in my heart.  I felt buoyant and free, like when you have been struggling to keep your head above water, dancing along on your tippy toes, just barely keeping your nose above the waves, when you decide to let the current take over, allowing your body to rise to the surface.  It’s such a tiny, little difference between fighting and floating, and all it takes is the decision to let go.

I had yet to see the finished product, but for a reason I can’t quite put my finger on, I was no longer dreading the moment Andrea would turn that chair around, and I would face my true self in the mirror.  I knew I was okay, with or without hair.  For once in my life, I accepted myself, regardless of how I looked.

I went on to try on the wig, and Andrea styled it perfectly, but I’ve decided not to post those pictures.  I have yet to wear the wig, not because it isn’t beautiful or I don’t love it, but because it isn’t me.  I don’t have to have hair to be a woman.  I don’t have to fit society’s definition of attractive to feel pretty.  I don’t have to look how someone else wants me to look.  I rock this buzz cut, and I am beautiful.