I was reading a book about hair at the library. Since I don't feel it has much to recommend it, I won't say the title. But there was one passage that leaped out at me.
More openly than most people, the author came right out and talked about the sexuality of hair--that our hair carries the essence of our sexual selves in a mysterious, profound way that cannot be underestimated or denied. So our feelings for our hair are not about "appearance" or "self-esteem" or any of that mealy-mouthed crap...our hair expresses something deep and scary in us, something we need almost more than life itself.
I put the book down and thought about that.
He's totally right: In the past, I have felt desexed by bad haircuts.
But, he's totally wrong. If I went bald today, it's not like I would jump for joy, but I would pretty much slap on a hat and go my merry way without much more than fond regret.
Not just because I, like everyone else who has seen "Star Trek: The Motion Picture," swiftly got the idea that lack of hair could do a mighty fine job of expressing sexuality too.
And not just because I truly believe that our little status games about looks should go acquaint themselves with the business end of a combine in ways which even Larry Flynt would find unprintable.
But because now I have earrings. Long, swingy earrings that stir when I move. Earrings that please me to no end. Far more, in fact, than my hair ever has or ever will.
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Having come from a rigidly anti-ear-piercing family, I was rather late to the earring party.
I'd spent my life admiring them--the only kind of jewelry I really like--and wishing I could have pierced ears. Then sternly telling myself that such a trivial little issue did not matter.
A couple of years ago, though, I decided that an act of self-ownership would do me good. There being no tattoo parlor in the mall, I went in to Claire's and got the gun.
And I am here to tell you that I was totally wrong. It did matter. The delight of having these tiny weights at my ears, swinging as I walk, is not something I should have denied myself.
And once I'd experienced it, whatever sense of self I might have unconsciously invested in my hair was gone.
Over.
So. Hair. Sometimes all that. But, you know...sometimes not.
