In the summer going into my senior year of high school, I had a friend from Chicago that really wanted to cut my hair. I was all for it in the moment. I was staying in Sicily with a host family, and some physical change seemed like a good marker of the change I had hoped to go through internally on this six week program. As if I had become a renewed person or something silly like that, and a new haircut or a nose piercing (which I searched for a place forever for on one of the last days and didn't find, much to my mom's happiness) would show that.
We agreed the next day he'd chop it off, give me a sort of bob kind of look. And then I woke up that morning recovering from the nightmare I had where I woke up within my dream and I had gone through with the cut and I hated it, feeling uncomfortable, and not me. I was terrified. So I didn't go through with it.
We made a deal that the next time I was in Chicago, he would give me a haircut.
I never felt inclined to go to Chicago because of it. Now he's living in New York, and I'm still not in Chicago, but now I felt like my long hair — about the same cut that I've had for fifteen years aside from some bang alterations — didn't feel like me anymore.
It's interesting and strange to me how something so seemingly unimportant becomes such a defining factor of your identity.












