The Final, Hair

Hair, How to Wear It

By Leisa M. Clement

           I have more hair than most people I know. I almost always have. In fact, I  remember very few times that I have not had my hair long. Once was for convenience, once was an accident, and once I had it cut on purpose. Excepting for those three times in my life, I have always had it long enough to sit on, get stuck in the car door, and in general be a pain in my neck, on a regular basis.

            The earliest time I can remember that I had my hair short was the summer when I was going into third grade. My family lived in Seymour, Connecticut, and we were moving up to Maine, where my parents were originally from. I remember that we were packing up the house and my mom was very busy. I remember my Mom at the next door neighbor’s house, mad because I had gotten gum in my hair after she had just washed it. I can still see her in my mind’s eye, stopping what she was doing and looking at me for just a moment, then asking me if I minded if she could just cut the gum out. I, in my youthful naiveté, went ahead and gave my permission. The next thing I knew the back of my neck was getting sunburnt. It must have affected me greatly because I can still remember the episode vividly. I also remember my mother saying, “it will grow back, it will grow back, don’t worry.”

            My mother was right and my hair eventually grew back. It took a couple years before it was almost where it had been when she whacked it off. We were settled in our new home in Orrington, Maine by the time the next episode with short hair arose, when I was in fourth grade. That was right about that time when I became aware there was such a thing as hairdo styles, and clothes and cliques. The shag cut, either short or long, was THE hair style to have. I begged my parents repeatedly for that haircut. I smartened up and talked to my grandmother, who came to Brewer every week, just to have her hair done at the beauty school. That must have worked because Gram came and picked Mom and I up one Saturday afternoon, and took us to the beauty school. I can still see the old storefront, and remember the odd smells inside the salon that first time. I remember being excited and proud when I told the lady that I wanted a long shag. I fairly strutted to the chair and hopped up on the little stool they put in the chair because I was so little. In the large mirror in front of me, I watched with pride, as the “beautician” snipped and snipped at hair on the front side of my head, and then my pride turned to absolute horror, as the next thing I knew, the woman continued on, right around my head. At that first wrong snip, my eyes welled up and the tears started to roll. The beautician, noticing this, asked if there was something wrong and I can still hear my mother’s reply, “No, nothing’s wrong. She is just so excited about her haircut.” I heard the quiet tones my mother used and knew what she was trying to say. We were in public, the deed was done, and couldn’t be undone now. “Don’t worry,” my mom said, when we got home, “it will grow back.”

            The last time I ever had my hair short was when I went to boot camp. I was nervous about boot camp to begin with, and wasn’t sure what to expect from the whole process, but cutting my hair was not something that had crossed my mind. It ran across the pathways when the new company commander reminded those of us with long hair, if it fell out of being put up, then the whole company was going to have to do push-ups. She used the only argument that could have worked with me, which was, others would have to pay for my hair falling out of the updo that I put it in. Eventually, that would have pissed off someone, so I chose to be proactive, and to have it cut. I was the only one with long hair that chose to do so, and I am glad that I did.  For the few girls that opted to keep their hair long, we in the rest of the company, had to pay for it with a few extra push-ups . Life is not good when you have 79 girls all mad at you because your hair fell out of the hat you stuffed it in. I kept it above my shirt collar for the next three years. It was not until I knew that I would not be enlisting again that I began growing out my hair again. It has remained as long as I could possibly get it since then.

             Many things about me have changed throughout the years, where I live, the accent in my speech, my weight, the one thing that never has changed is the length of my hair, unless it was to get longer. Taking care of my hair is the one ritual that I have kept throughout my lifetime. It relaxes, and soothes me. I do some of my best thinking at night, when I am combing out my hair and giving it a few healthy strokes with the hairbrush.  I spend much time each day washing, combing, styling and in general, fretting over the state that my hair is in. My children have learned that that is a time that they can have my complete undivided attention, and every time my son wants to sorely aggravate me now, for whatever reason, he sneaks up behind me and, quick as the pesky little varmint that he is, will pluck out a gray hair, all the while laughing like a loony and saying, “Don’t worry Ma, it will grow back.”