traveling roots

Growing up in the tropics, I used to dream of having bright pink-blue-green hair.
Some people advised against it, said my hair would fall off, and why do it anyway; I had such beautifully colored curls.
Thanks mom.
But I dreamt on still
I flew across the water and up north. I used to tell people I would shave off ALL my hair.
They said don’t! Let the hair grow long and let the girls be hairy! Let them entice the world and its boys with the tangles on their heads. Don’t: you have beautiful hair!
I know, friends.
One time, it was 2am the night before an exam and my focus had gone on vacation. Actually, it had gone on sabbatical. I was far away. I was freaking out. I had given up on the pass. I wanted to know why life didn’t resemble dreams, why it hadn't turned into the fantasy I had planned.
I wanted to know who to be.
I took the scissors to my skull. First a little on the side….
Then half skin, half shiny, flowing waves of weight. The past and the future couldn’t tell each other apart.
I ran around the college dorm with a pair of scissors in my hand and, meaning to ask people for friendship and affection I instead blurted: wanna cut my hair?
And I thought: this is fun, a community haircut. But I felt alone.
I had left my hair behind, but held on tight to the fullness of my ego.
And I dreamt on, all the way back to where I started.


Back home, it took two bottles of peroxide, a tube of aquamarine paste. Then a second, shaky-insecure shave session, this time in the hands of a loving trusted friend. Six months of steady growth. A semi-ridiculous amount of cash and…
I went to the master.
I put on the robe. Strap Velcro around my neck. He sits me down, there’s a black cat at my feet and a weird little bald dog that’s the cross between Chihuahua and hyena. He congratulates me on the quality and texture of the curls, says they're in top shape and he recommends at least a yearly shaving to strengthen and rejuvenate.
Thank you, doctor.
He asks me what I want and I clumsily explain. The cross between Jew-fro and undercut. Doesn't matter; let me trust you with my life.
Three or four buzzing strokes of the machine and I am as good as new, like it was all an awkward nightmare.
I came back yesterday for a touch up after giving it some thought and asked him if it can be shorter and could you shave a little more please?
He says: full support for all your wild shenanigans!
I have never been this happy about hair in my life.