Leaving Africa, I decided to chop off my hair.
I sat in a chair in the middle of the living room, getting my hair cut by an unprofessional hairstylist with scissors we had bought from the grocery store, at 10pm the night before our last ministry day in Botswana.
My hairstylist, Brandi, hesitated. “I’m getting really nervous here because I love your long hair. I don’t want to ruin it.”
And it hit me how strange it was for me to cut my hair. To cut away one of my most complimented features. A feature that was especially highlighted in Africa. I would take my long hair out of it’s ponytail, and as it fell past my shoulders all the young girls would gather and giggle. They’d reach for my hair and pet it like a puppy and ask to braid it. “It’s so long and beautiful.” “It’s so silky and soft.”
And I was chopping it off.
It’s because I love change. And I love how a haircut embodies change.
Hair is literally old pieces of you, and it feels like pieces of life get caught in it. It carries a lot of the memories of the things I’ve experienced. I run my fingers through my hair a lot, a constant companion of my adventures. But as it gets longer, it sometimes feels too heavy, like it’s dragging me behind.
So I love the act of cutting my hair, that it’s there and gone. Like I’m entering a new stage of life. And I am, as I head off to a new continent and I still process growing in a new community.
I love hearing the scissors glide through. I love feeling the long strands of hair fall down. The cutting away of the old to make room for something new. But not completely new. Because there’s still the strands that remain. It’s not a complete change, but a renewal, giving fresh life.
Once the cut is done, I get up and run my fingers through my hair. Holding on to the strange sensation that there isn’t as much hair to hold on to. Feeling the lightness of it, not noticing until it’s gone, how heavy my hair was. And embracing change.
