Mother baggage

Pixie?

Can I pull off a pixie?

Oh my. I’ve been thinking about this for a while. Now, it’s time to do it. I’ve stressed over getting a short hair cut. I’ve threatened my hair when I can’t get it to hold any style. I’ve threatened to bleach it white and do purple tips like a friend of mine did. But, when it comes right down to it, I’m terrified of cutting my hair. There are many reasons and there is past baggage tied to it.

What if it looks silly? What if I look like a boy? What if I cut it, don’t like it, and it doesn’t grow out? What if I look like a boy (yes, I know I’ve said that already)? What if my neck is too ‘old’ to pull it off? What if I have to wear product all the time to do anything with it? What if I think it will be a ‘wash n go’ style and it turns out to need more work than my mop does now? What if I look like my mom? Will I be fulfilling her desire for me to have short hair? So what? What if I look like a boy?

My hair has always been thin and fine. My mother hated it. I wanted it long. She wanted it short. I can remember in the first grade that it was picture day and for some reason my mom didn’t know about it. I told her as I was running out the door for the bus. She had put my hair in pig tails and was mad because I hadn’t given her time to do something with my hair. I was in the first grade.

I can remember her putting perms in my hair to try to help it and give it ‘body’. They always looked horrible and I got teased in school. One time, she had forgotten to get her regular curlers back from my aunt and only had the perm curlers. This meant that she had no way to do the second round of curlers that were supposed to be done after the perm curlers. This turned my hair into an afro for weeks. The kids were mean with their racial slurs. I was in the second grade.

On summer, she buzzed the boys hair; Richard, Billy, Bobby and Jeffrey. I was the only girl with my brother and 3 boy cousins. At least she didn’t buzz my hair, but she couldn’t find any scissors. Aunt Betty did provide a couple of razor blades and together, one on each side, they proceeded to cut my hair – shorter and shorter. They might as well have buzzed it. That was the summer after 3rd grade.

After that, she couldn’t catch me to cut my hair or do anything with it. So, she started taking me to the barber school in town. Year after year, I ended up with some form of a bowl cut. Or a new perm that made me look like a cat that had stuck its paw in an electric socket. Horrendous.

In Junior High, I was just filling out with hips and had had one of those bowl cuts over the summer. I had someone stop me in the hall and asked if I was a boy or girl. It’s bad enough that I was only allowed to wear dress pants with tennis shoes and courderoys. No jeans. And the only skirts I owned were bought when I messed up my leg and had to wear a cast for 3 months.

All of these things lead to a fear of having short hair. Not only that, but it feels like if I go with short hair, my mom wins. I have fought long and hard to keep some sort of length to my hair. But, honestly, it’s getting to be too much of a hassle. I was in Chicago over the weekend and forgot my mousse and spritzer. My hair was flat and I was more than ready to chop it off. I thought Master was going to during one of our presentations.

Also, I’m wanting to go to the gym in the morning, but dread the idea of having to dry and primp my hair at the gym before going to work. That has kept me out of the gym since starting my new job.

Wonder if I can pull this off?
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