The Haircut Threshold

When my sister was little, my mother was DONE fighting with her long, tangled hair and inability to maintain it like a responsible adult. (Amusingly, as I write this, my hair is in a bun, because I didn’t feel like brushing the insane mess left after having sex yesterday… so….yeah.) My mother had not decided/needed to save money by learning to do some basic haircuts yet. So, she dragged my sister into the salon, screaming at her trusty stylist Jill, to shave her motherfucking head bald. I think my sister was 4-5 years old at the time?

Jill, like any responsible adult, talked my mother down from her, rather dramatic, cliff. My sister left sporting a short bob - easy to care for, less likely to be so tangled, not a shaved head on a little girl, which would cause a bunch of other small-town conversations my mother would love the attention from, but complain endlessly about.

Somewhere in-between my sister’s haircut and my similar experience around 8, both my sister and mother were diagnosed with ADHD, and began taking Ritalin. So, theoretically, my mother had added to her capacity to handle certain quirks or frustrations in daily life with a bit more control, calm, and focus. She had household photos at one point to show the differences between before she was medicated, noting how much more organized our lives became. I’m glad she found something that helped. I have friends now who’re discovering the wonders of proper treatment for previously-undiagnosed ADD and ADHD. But, back to my mother. Even with speed onboard, patience remained a virtue beyond her grasp.

I envied other girls whose mothers gingerly pulled knots from their hair after using not only conditioner, but the “no more tears” sprays to help detangle particularly difficult sections. We had Prell. A green goo that washes hair thoroughly, but does shit all to moisturize it (I believe the stuff is still around? I’m not sure). Conditioner was a touch-and-go, rare situation. I’m still not sure if my mother uses the stuff. With the added joys of iron-hard water, and my desire to look pretty while being able to run and jump like many children, my hair did not stay tidy. And it grew quickly. Despite wanting my hair cut short just like my sister’s when I was 5, it had grown back out to a waist-length mess.

In her defense, my mother warned me. Many times, I’m sure. She threatened daily that if I couldn’t take care of my hair, she would cut it off. I might have taken this more seriously if it weren’t part of a regular barrage of threats. My mother threatened to simply leave all of us horrible children, what seemed like daily, for nearly all of my childhood. She offered to sell us to grocery store clerks, or even to pay them to take us off her hands. (hahahahahahahahaha. Hilarious). I’m not sure what other threats there were, but enough that lobbing off my hair seemed like just another thing she said. Until, of course, it wasn’t.

I have no idea what the catalyst was that particular day. I vaguely remember her anger. It was huge, terrifying. She pulled the red kitchen stool out both front doors, and plopped it on the front porch. Yes, the front porch was always bigger. But, why? Why did the whole neighborhood need to see my punishment? As an adult, I struggle much more with understanding this aspect. By now, she had begun practicing basic haircut techniques, with a comb, some hair scissors, and clippers to do a basic fade for my dad and our neighbor. She seized my braid, and sliced it off, unceremoniously. Then, I assume she tidied up the ends a bit, but I don’t remember anything else until I was under my little mermaid blanket in bed. It was still light outside, but I’d been put to bed, and cried inconsolably. My hair was gone. I hadn’t wanted it gone. I cried long and hard enough, she at some point felt bad, but this wasn’t something that could be undone. Other girls learned this lesson via cutting their Barbies’ hair. I learned it through my mother’s anger and my own scalp.

An odd realization now is how such practices are used and portrayed as such a devastating humiliation ceremonies in various cultures. Try to escape a cult? Get caught, and have some asshole cut your hair off in pieces in front of the rest of the cult to remind them to stay in their place. Her need to put me on the front porch, where any of the neighbors walking by could see her punish me for being a normal little girl… I wonder what it made her feel. Powerful? Excited? Horny? Vindicated? It left me broken, quietly sobbing like Jo in “Little Women.” I want to type that the difference was I hadn’t made the choice, but in my mind, I had. I was a bad gir. I was messy. I was lazy. I didn’t deserve to have long, pretty hair.