Big Hairy Deal

I appreciate my hair, I do. Just as the chanting of a snake charmer raises the cobra from its coiled, dormant state, so does my hair draw out my reticent femininity. Also, it's comfy like a blanket. When I feel disarmed and wild, the heaviness of my hair shushes me back down to earth.

You know what I can't stand, though? Is that my hair picks up smells faster than a tourist picks up E. Coli from raw meat in Mexico. It's like, one second my hair smells like perfumey splendor and then the next second it's all Starbucksy ass munch. Or bacon. Or the cigarette smoke blown all over me by the lady I'm standing next to with the messy boobs and chin hair.

Twice in my lifetime, I've chopped my hair all off.  The first time I was in grade nine and it was right before my sister's wedding. I played about 18 different sports back then and so I looked like a 10 year old boy. It took me forever to grow it out and then again, I chopped it all off right after Jake was born. It's interesting to note that both times I cut my hair, I was having a bit of an identity crisis. Maybe I'm looking too much into it but I believe that in many ways, my hair is a metaphor for my Self. I'm lovely and feminine yet sometimes wild and unruly. My life can be messy and overwhelming and completely uncontrollable, but it's beautiful because it makes me Suzy. The more I attempt to manipulate it, the uglier it gets. I just need to let go and let it be.