Much has been written about the symbolism of hair. Admittedly, on the Internet at any rate, ninety per cent of this is devoted to decrying the mullet; but there is wider scholarship. Natalia Ilyn’s The Blonde Myth: The Roots of the Blonde Myth in Our Culture references, according to the blurb, “ancient myths, fairy tales, Hollywood iconography, and the daily assault of advertising” - not too shabby. Victorian women coveted abundant hair; African-American women distinguished “good” hair and “bad” and wore either as a conscious statement of race; the shaved head has symbolised everything from concentration camps to fevers, prostitution to gang affiliation.
Historically, short hair was a symbol of something - usually something pretty dire - while long hair was the default. Today it’s the opposite - no-one asks why a woman has short hair, but long hair is assumed to indicate some unusual religious affiliation, a penchant for Ren Faires or an incipient donation to Locks of Love. Having long hair myself, I have been asked a number of unusual questions. One woman, seeing me with my hair in a braided bun, inquired if I was Brethren - I didn’t like to inform her she was getting her stereotypes wrong, as around these-here parts the Brethren women secure their front hair with a barrette and wear a non-braided bun behind, sometimes with a headcovering. My favourite was when I was working at an ice-cream shop, with my hair done in Heidi braids, and two girls came by to apply for jobs. They looked at me distastefully, handed over their CsV in a giggly and collaborative fashion, and then inquired “Do they make you wear your hair like that?” Needless to say, they did not get the job.
In general, though, comments are positive if occasionally bewildering. Being told my hair is long, for example, is the sort of statement that can only properly be answered by adopting a sort of River Tam expression and saying “Your shirt is red”, or alternatively looking startled, grabbing a handful of hair and screaming. One is never sure if the motive is complimentary or intended to tactfully point out a faux pas. Sort of like “Your slip is showing”, only “Hon, I don’t know if you’re aware, but you must have skipped last month’s trim and your hair grew fourteen inches… just FYI”. One half expects to be slipped a sympathetic wink and a pair of scissors.
Equally difficult to answer is “I’ve always wanted long hair”. Now, of all the fond desires in the world, this one is fairly easy to achieve. The stuff sprouts spontaneously from your head, after all. It’s easier to grow than lentil sprouts, and even I managed that once, although I admit I subsequently couldn’t find anything more useful to do with them than feed them to the chickens. People, if you want long hair, there is one simple step: don’t cut it. And don’t tell me “My hair doesn’t grow long”. You tried growing it a few years back, right? And since then? You cut it, didn’t you, genius.
Forgive my snark. It must be the weight of all that hair pressing on the sarcasm centres of my brain. I fully respect the fact that this world contains bald men, women with alopecia and people with crazed, scissor-happy spouses, all of whom may legitimately be longing for knee-length tresses. But for the rest of you leeches, listen up: I put in my time to get this hair. You know, all those long, arduous years of doing nothing. If you aren’t willing to commit to the strenuous passivity of not going to the hairdresser every month, your claim that long hair is the key to the Nirvana you seek seems suspiciously shallow. Beware, or I may find out your occupation - neurosurgeon, prima ballerina, archaeologist - and tell you with a wistful sigh “I’ve always wanted to do that”.* You have been warned.
What gets the most comments these days is the colour of my hair. After mooping through life for many years as a streaky dishwater blonde I discovered henna, and risked the wrath of the Almighty by turning into a redhead. I’d like to say “turning back into a redhead”, as I had some pretensions to strawberry blondeness as a kidling; but it’s a stretch. Fake as a fish, this colour. Fake fake fake.
At least, so it seems to me who knows the deep dark secret. Apparently it isn’t glaringly obvious to the average passer-by, possibly because my axolotly glowing pallor is mistakable enough for the complexion of the Real Thing. If I were to visit England, I might even get beat up. Cool, huh?
Which leads me to the surrealest hair conversation I’ve had by far. It was following the birth of the snortlepig - and when I say “following”, I mean that I had just completed an 18-hour induced labour and forceped placental extraction, was out of my mind on nitrous oxide and covered with enough blood to decorate the dead of the Pelennor Fields. The three doctors who had trooped in to save me from the perils of the operating room were standing around staring at me - oh, did I mention I was stark naked and kind of a yellowish-green colour? Anyway - standing around, staring at me, covered up to their elbows in my life-gore and vaguely observing the morsel of humanity clutched awkwardly to Helpdesk Man’s chest.
Finally one of them spoke.
“I thought she’d have your red hair”, she said.
“No no, this is henna”, I said with the apologetic tone I always feel obliged to use on such occasions for having duped the public, but secretly pleased she hadn’t noticed my inch of roots showing.
“Oh, really! Henna! I was gonna use that a while back. I dye my hair but it’s really damaging, I haven’t been red for ages. It’s Indian, right?”
“Sort of”, I said, casting a glance at the Indian doctor who was looking mildly amused, and wondering if anyone would give me anything to eat.
“Do you think it would go with my skin tone?”
The doctor in question had sallow, faintly olive-tinted skin, but then she had just saved me from a trip to the operating room.
“Sure”, I lied valiantly, and then as guilt (or was it simply the desire to pass out?) overcame me I added “But do a strand test first.”
At that point, mercifully, the midwife ushered everyone out of the room so I could go wash the blood out from between my toes (a novel sensation, incidentally, do try it sometime). Fifteen months later, many aspects of my labour have blurred into a vaguely hellish impression of dinginess and pain**, but I still remember that doctor. Should Fate land me in hospital again, I hope I see her once more. Perhaps she could give me a heart transplant and we could talk about tanning.
*Writers also suffer from this problem.
**Not to be a downer or anything.
