The big, HUGE chop

So, after two months of thinking (or mentally torturing myself ), I finally got my hair cut (and now it is extremely short!)

It was really difficult to book an appointment with my new hairdresser (he’s so good that it seems like everyone in my hometown wants him to work with their hair). Thankfully, he made an exception and booked me before everyone else on a tuesday morning.

I left home early that day with fear inside my heart. What would it look like? Would I really let him do it? Would I… cry? I thought for two months and yet I had no idea what I was up to.

As I arrived, I made the decision that, whatever happened, I would not give up and I would not cry. This was something I wanted – the first thing done to my hair that was decided by me entirely.

I entered the salon and sat on those salon chairs. Got my hair combed and divided into groups. He made ponytails with those and cut them with scissors (it was needed because I’m going to donate that hair). I looked at myself in the mirror and felt… nothing. 70% of my hair was gone within seconds and I did not feel sorry for it. In fact, after I observed myself a few seconds, I felt an excitement I’d never felt before – I wanted that so much and it was finally happening! My big chop!

He washed the hair and shaved my head. I looked at myself in the mirror again and LOVED IT.

Seriously, I feel prettier than ever and do not regret what I did. Now, I want to take care of my hair, of my whole body… I believe that I even love myself more. It’s a sense of power, of knowing that this is my body, my hair, and I can do whatever I want with it.

Another thing that crossed my mind that day (and I will keep with myself forever) is this: I won’t ask anyone’s opinion about it. The reason: it’s none of their business.

It’s a fact that whenever people make these big changes in life, some of their friends and family members will judge them and maybe even be rude to them. To avoid this and to be more empowered, I haven’t asked anyone’s opinion about my new hair style. I know some of them will say things anyway and I may get mad at them for that, but I won’t carry these bad feelings with me.

That’s part of being an adult, right? Making decisions and sticking to them. Lesson learned.

So that’s it, you guys.

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So I did it!

I did it! Yes, I got my hair cut! All those cells that were making me mad are gone and, to be honest, it was the best decision I have ever made so far.

There will be a full post about it soon, as well as a post about the situation in Brazil.

 

 

“Dude, it’s up to you”

“Dude, it’s up to you! It’s not my hair, it’s yours”, said my brother.

Okay, let’s just ignore the fact that my brother calls me “dude”, which I am not, and get straight to the point.

I could have never imagined that someday I would start a blog and that my first post (or, as I will call it, “note”, because I plan to post some fiction too) would be about my hair.

As a matter of fact, this is the first time I actually think about my hair in fourteen years.

Shocking? For some people, yes, this is shocking. Hair is not a bunch of meaningless cells. It is, for most, a part of their personality, an important feature of their being.To others, it means style.

To me, hair has always meant trouble and pain. (That’s why I avoided thinking about it).

When I was little, my mother would keep it short. Curly as it is (or was), I felt like a little angel, I loved it and I was never aware of it, of what it looked like to other people. It was my hair and it was beautiful. Life was incredibly easy.

Then, one day, the whole world changed for me. My so-loved hair became a reason to feel bad about myself, to feel shame and embarrassment. I was five years old when that happened.

I had just arrived at school. At that time, the kids would form two queues before entering the classroom – one for boys and one for girls. Why? I still don’t know. All I know is that I got kicked out of the girls queue because, according to them, “I looked like a boy”.

It felt horrible.

Not because I think looking like a boy is bad. I don’t. It isn’t, at all. At that time, I already thought that. But being kicked out of anything because of how you look is terrible. As a five-year-old, I felt ashamed of myself. I felt that, if I kept looking like that, people would never like me. The girls, specially. So I decided to change.

I let my hair grow. And I got it straightened.

It hurt twice. First, because of my scalp, which I discovered to be quite sensitive. Second, because of my soul. I was changing not for myself, but for others. I was doing what they thought was right for me. But how could I fight it?

So I started ‘looking like a girl’. However, people still treated me badly. I had ‘friends’, but for them I wasn’t the right person to hang out with after school. I had other classmates, who only spoke to me if we had to work together for a project. I was almost totally alone.

As I got to university, I finally found people who like me for me and began to develop this ideia: no matter what my hair looks like, we’ll still be friends! And I thought “What if I got it cut? What if it gets curly again, as I used to love it?”

I asked my brother his opinion. “Dude, it’s up to you”, he said. And he’s right. It’s up to me and only me.

And I am so happy I finally know that.