I don’t want anyone touching my hair.
It seems like it’s the only part of my body that can actually shield me from viewing reality as a cold, harsh one. It has always made me feel comfortable and safe.
Yet here I am, waiting in line for a haircut.
As the barber called my name and made me sit, I made a gesture that approves my nervousness on what was going to happen. He put the hair cloth on me as I stare at the man in the mirror. His poofy eyebags seems to be there, still full of worries. His acne breakout still irritates him, making him insecure. He made a small gesture of a smile, though he did not really know if it was genuine or not. He looked as his face, a face he dislikes. A face that he hates. A face that he could easily laugh at because of the way it radiates melancholy and despair.
The barber took his razor and made the first shave. That felt good. It felt like the razor had cut the misery that my hair saw. It left a blank, empty splotch that may or may not cleared everything that me hair went through.
The barber took his comb and scissors and cut my hair. The hair that have seen the worst of me. The hair that saw the real me. The hair that enveloped me with comfort whenever I feel awkward, miserable, or just… depressed. The hair that covered my eyes whenever my mom scolds me for being such a weight on her shoulders. The hair that gives warmth whenever I was out on the street, walking in a cold, stormy evening to a friend’s house because my mom would not let me in and wants me to live independently. The hair that catched up the tears in my eyes as I desperately beg a lover to not let go. The hair that seemed to style itself, making me feel and look like another person, just to shield myself from realizing my cruel, cruel life.
I looked at the fingers of the barber, so swift yet so gentle. He took a patch of long strands of my hair. In a split second, he cut it.
I let the strand be cut by letting go.
I closed my eyes and let the barber finish his work.
When I opened them, I saw a new man. A man full of potential. A man full of burden, but seems to carry it dutifully. A man that seems to let life take a shot on him, and in return he’ll take a shot at life.
For a second, I feel rebirth. I feel like life eased itself on me. I saw myself…. in years to come.
I felt overwhelmed by everthing, but in a good way. Cutting my hair proved that there’s always a start, a refresh button. I looked at the face of a new man, and I grinned as I saw his eyes filled with emotions anew. He felt reassured that whatever happens in life, he would carry and live by it and take it as challenge, not a burden. He saw on his left a eye, the flame of forgiveness to his mother that only wanted him a good life. On his right eye, the flame of reassurance ablaze, making himself sure that the right one is out there, waiting for him as much as he waits for her.
I felt complete. I felt like life has a new meaning.
Who knew hair could mean letting go?