*cover photo by Jonas Stolle on Unsplash*
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Last night, after seven years, I cut off the one remaining loc on my head. I hadn't planned to cut it, but 45 minutes after shaving my head as usual, save for the patch of hair on the left corner, it felt like it was time. It was longer than it'd ever been. I was beginning to do things like closing it in my refrigerator door or accidentally tucking it into my pants when I pulled them up my waist. But beyond all this, it felt like it was tired of holding on, like it was signaling that its time had come and gone. So, I took my scissors and chopped away the strands and all the events and energy stowed inside them. Sometimes, you must go bare to bloom.
The first time I chopped all my hair off was my sophomore year of college, 14 years ago. Even at my young age, there had been something immensely liberating about the weight I'd been carrying on my head falling to the ground. Almost like a ritual, my spirit in tune with something I couldn't see, moments would continue to come over the years when it would feel near necessary to cut my hair, usually with no true forewarning.
Each time the scissors were near my scalp,
it felt like the tilling of soil and being primed for a proper harvest.
Our hair carries more energy than we'd like to believe. Where do we think the copious amounts of joy, pain, glee, pleasure, anger, sorrow, and the other feelings we have yet to name reside? It goes anywhere that seems like safety. It goes anywhere that allows it to stay. And to this, I say, what good is a crown if it begins to prick and puncture?
This one loc hanging from the back of my bald head would sometimes attract attention when I was out, and people often asked me the significance. I'd typically tell them I used to have a whole head full of hair, but this is the one I'd kept. I really meant that this was all I had the strength to hold onto. These strands told a story of all the lives I had lived in these past seven years. In this hair are shreds of memories that have metabolized as both dreams and nightmares.
It was the year 2017 when I began this particular set of locs, which initially just started as some two-strand twists that I eventually decided not to take out. I could have never envisioned the following seven years, let alone the following months. By the end of 2017 my dad had died, and I'd experienced one of the most troublesome and honestly terrifying breakups of my life. In 2020, deep in the pandemic and in fear of the end, I sat outside the house I shared with my best friend in DC and had her cut off all my locs, except for one. Year after year, life would dish out more experiences, and all the feelings birthed from these times, whether perceived as good or bad, were buried within this one loc of hair.
I feel so naked today without the loc that has not only become an established part of my look but my general being. It's incredible how much we hide behind things, like our hair; we seem so raw when they're gone. Similarly, we hide behind all the things we can't let go of. We hide behind the grief, the pain, the defeat, the doubt, and the despair, not realizing that we've created a lousy shield that only gives us the illusion of safety without genuinely experiencing it.
A part of me feels panicked, brainstorming ways to reattach this one loc to a now completely bald head. More than hair, this loc has become a comfort blanket. I carried it everywhere, often running my hand over it throughout the day to ensure it was still there. But to reattach it is to reattach all the memories and years.
The loc is now sitting on my nightstand, placed beside the hospital bracelet I received during my stay after surviving a fatal car accident. Both of these things symbolize aspects of me. They still carry significance in my life and story, whether around my wrist or attached to my head.
To cut your hair is to be seen. To cut away something that offers comfort and convenience is knowing you cannot run away from yourself. To cut away the things that are growing slower than once before or no longer growing at all or maybe never even grew in the first place is to prioritize healthy new starts, even if other people can't notice the intention behind what you're doing. Periodically, the cutting itself is the very thing that becomes a catalyst for growth.
The common misconception may be that I didn't love my loc; on the contrary -- it was my favorite. It is another lesson in letting things go, even when we love them. Being okay with things not being forever, and maybe that's also one of the other many lessons death is teaching me. It's okay not to hold onto something until it's on its last leg. Whether that be a job, a mindset, a habit, a relationship, or whatever it be. And I know, I know, it's easier said than done. Trust, I'm preaching to myself.
One of my favorite things to do is go to the park. The one near my house has stunning tall trees that provide shade and solace to those who gather near them, like grandchildren at the feet of their matriarch, preparing to tell them the best story they've ever heard. The leaves have been falling, and the way they twirl and swirl, I mistake them for flying ballerinas.
I am enchanted by the simplicity, the shedding. How beautiful they were on the tree and also how beautiful they are in the transition. In the falling. In the change.
Like the trees teach, it's okay to shed. When I get that inkling to cut my hair, I act on it. I'm in synch with something I can't see but can feel. Like the leaves beginning to detach themselves from the branches, even the parts we let go of are essential. Even the parts we no longer hold in our hands or hearts have a role. Just at the leaves shed to help conserve the tree's energy, sometimes cutting away makes you more whole.
I've written a lot about my connection to trees and learning so much about myself and the world through sitting with them. Touching their trunks. Staring at their roots. Stretching my neck much further than my arthritis is happy with to see how high they are. When I can't see the top, I imagine it's because they've extended into another place, something I can't see, some sort of heaven, a place much softer than this one. Somewhere that connects me back to both what I've lost and what I've lovingly let go of.
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One of my faves. Also finally listened to your voiceover and can’t believe I hadn’t listened sooner! Your voice is like *looks for metaphor that is less cliche than “honey”*... let’s just say I could listen all day.
I’m also going through a period of gently but insistently shedding. Things I love, things I cherish, but things that are just ready to go. Your post describes this process perfectly. Thank you for sharing 💜
Oh Kamil this was so very very beautiful and profound. I resonated with it so much as someone who mostly wears her their hair short. My hair, when growing and grown, feels like too much of a burden to keep so I eventually find myself back in the barber's chair and feeling like myself again after that first cut of trying to rock different hairstyles ago for the colder months. Now that the weather is breaking I've felt that itch once more to break out my scissors and my developer and get to work on my platinum cut. Thank you for sharing and for the oh so timely reminder that to bloom we sometimes need to just let it all go.