Brushing back my hair, I tried to ignore a growing sense of frustration that was building within at the sight of frizzy, greying strands refusing to be pushed into place. Resigning myself to a thinning pate, I let a soft sigh of disgust escape my lips as I caught the wavy, thin locks at my back on the mirror. “I wish I could cut it all away!” The force with which the thought entered my head forced me to stop and take a critical look at my dry locks.
An image rose from the dust of my memories, boyish looking, short hair, fiercely independent, a dog by her side. Georgina or George as she liked to be called. A relic from my childhood. An unlikely hero. As a pre teen, my ideas of the world were shaped by Enid Blyton. Sexist or not. Impressions from a long past youth rose afresh as I discovered where my fascination for short hair came from.
I fancied myself a la Georgina. A tomboy. Someone fiercely independent and free-spirited. I think my adoration for this character came as much from what she was as it did from my repulsion of what Anne stood for.
Years later I now realize that it was the attributes that Enid Blyton attributed to George that I liked. Attributes commonly associated with boys and men. Stuff like courage, adventure and a drive to get their hands dirty literally and figuratively. In some convoluted way, books were my refuge from a world that expected me to be like Anne. Short hair was one of them.
So, this past month or two back, I sat at the hair salon and explained that I wanted my locks chopped off. The lady convinced me yet again why layers will be better and an hour later I walked off trying to convince myself what she said was true and rueing my lighter purse. Today, am back at that mutinous point where my hair represents more than just an appendage. And am sure I want it short and out-of-the-way and free to feel the wind on my neck. Like George.