Enlightening Nonsense

.

Gimme head with hair

Long beautiful hair

Shining, gleaming,

Streaming, flaxen, waxen

Give me down to there hair

Shoulder length or longer

Here baby, there mama

Everywhere daddy daddy

Hair, hair, hair, hair, hair, hair, hair

Flow it, show it

Long as God can grow it

My hair

—“Hair” from the musical Hair

.

I had worn long hair not only in my nether region but also on top of my head for some time now but never really figured out how long it was. And then I saw the picture on my fridge of my and my oldest nephew as a baby. My hair was long then and he is now 16 years old. After a few more calculations using a protractor, calculator, a compass of both the “pointy draw a circle” kind and the “point north” kind, a straight edge, a plum-bob, a level and a few chicken feathers I figured it out:

It had been about 18 years since I had a real haircut.

Think about that. I am 43 years old now, which means that (hang on, let me get out my calculator) I was about 25 years old when I started with the long hair. That means that most people who know me today NEVER knew me with short hair. Then again, most people who know me today don’t know that I planned to walk 100 miles in the Sahara Desert naked but had to call it off on the third day due to severe sunburn of the penis.

Back in college I played with the mullet, which is a white trash haircut that soccer players seemed to find in fashion and since I played soccer, I couldn’t pass up on the latest trend. The mullet is a long in the back, short on the sides and front haircut that makes one look as if the first words they are going to say when they open their mouth is, “Now that is the best garbage can soup I’ve ever tasted!”

I graduated college in 1990 and that same year got a role in the European Tour of the hippie musical “Hair.” I went out there with short hair and after seven months of not cutting it I came back with a messy, somewhat longer hairstyle. My brother was getting married and I cut my mop for the wedding. If I had my opinions about marriage that I do today back then, instead of a haircut I would have probably had gone to his wedding with a picket sign that said, “WHAT’S NEXT—GAY MARRIAGE?” If I had known his wife extensively beforehand my sign would have probably read, “YOU BETTER BELIEVE I WILL ‘SPEAK NOW’ AND NOT FOREVER HOLD MY PEACE!”

The musical “Hair” is about a group of hippies in the 60s and covers a gamut of issues that can mostly be summed up in four words: drugs, love, Vietnam and hair (the word “and” just being an inclusionary word and not part of the four. But it does seem like just about everyone who went through the “Hair” meat grinder came out a little more chopped meat, whether from experimental drug use or from prancing around on stage in tie-dye for so many performances that after awhile you start to think that, “It would be so groovy to be hairy and high!” While I did try marijuana and hash for the first time there, I was not really into it. But the long hair thing did seem to represent something greater, or at least that is what was pretended.

In the 60s, long hair represented freedom and a break from the traditional boarding school and suit and tie and short hair job market. I guess not showering and fucking anything that moved also represented a break from the conventions of hygiene and Puritanism. Drugs played their role in that they provided a communal way for many to experiment in states of consciousness that were not so stiff and tight like a pair of underpants with too much starch in them but more loosey-goosey.

After my brother’s wedding, I let my hair grow until I believe 1993, when I did a bad production of West Side Story in Milton, Pennsylvania, where brain cells didn’t grow because of the 60 cent draft beers and massive inbreeding. I was Bernardo, the head of the Sharks. Being somewhat white with curly hair, I tanned and cut my hair really short and temporary dyed it black. That was the last I remember cutting my hair short.

My family never really cared for my long hair. My father has worn a modified flattop since his Marines days. My mother would make comments disguised as questions like, “Don’t you want to tie your hair up?” or “Do you think that ponytail on the top of your head looks good?” My sister basically thought I was an anti-government lackey. And my brother used to say half-jokingly, “Why don’t you buzz your hair short, wear red, white and blue and hold a flag?”

Ogre, in one of many discussions on how I could change my appearance to her liking, said that I should cut my hair. I told her I just might. She didn’t really believe I would but I was really starting to ponder the situation.

More than doing something to mold myself into something that I was not in order to please Ogre, I have for years been asking of the deepest spiritual question “Who Am I? “ only to receive back, “A person who should stop asking questions and continue to suck my dick!”

Who Am I beyond the body, beyond the job, beyond the beliefs…beyond the hair? I realized that I had worn my hair long for so long that not only had others had started identifying me as “the long-haired trainer,” “the long-haired kickboxing instructor,” “the long-haired yogi,” “the long-haired cocksucker,” but that I had subtly started identifying myself in the same manner. I knew I wasn’t my long hair but a part of me identified the same assertions that the 60s long hairs were asserting, that I was different and not just another corporate slave. I liked the fact that most people my age wore their hair short or were balding. This set me apart.

But on deeper reflection I questioned if I could remain different without wearing the clown costume of someone who is different. Could I be a superhero without my mask and tights? Could I find a pair of tights that didn’t run when pulling them over my thong?

And suddenly I found myself committed to finding out who or what was behind the long hair. I had made my decision that after 18 years of long hair I would cut it off. Since I am a bit dramatic by nature and I was curious about seeing the myriad of scars that I knew lay hidden beneath the mop, I decided I would shave it bald. I didn’t think I would look particularly good bald, as my head is extraterrestrial long, my eyes are Marty Feldman big, my eyebrows are bushy like a 70s porn stars bush and I have enough scars on my head to make me look like my mother tried to abort me with a hanger at 8 ½ months. Still, it would grow back and it would be fun to see.

As a pre-trial, I shaved my balls bare. Suddenly I looked like a pre-pubescent boy and found myself fantasizing about joining the seminary.

With all the struggles that Ogre and I were having in our relationship, it also symbolized for me a willingness to drop everything I was attached to in order to move one step closer to a peaceful union with her. More so, it represented as a seeker of Truth that I was willing to sacrifice anything and everything at the altar in order to find out Who or What I Am, even my gorgeous locks!

Being dramatic, not only was I going to shave my head bald but I was also going to film the process, including some yogic discussion on attachment and ego identification and make a short film about it of which three people from the YouTube community could watch it and enjoy, one of whom would write a comment below the video that was succinct yet perfect in its chiseled diamond-like preciseness: “Fag!” I enlisted Nussy, a friend since elementary school and one of the few who has known me with both short and long hair, to do the filming.

I started discussing with co-workers and students that I was going to cut my hair and no one believed me. This just solidified the identification they had of me being the longhaired cocksucker. One girl, Root, a student at the kickboxing school, saw that this little drama was actually something larger than just getting a little trim, and by “getting a little trim” I am not referring to pussy here, and wanted in. I told her that due to sexist regulations I had created that she would not be able to be a camerawoman but could wear a fake moustache and be an extra cameraman on the set. She was psyched, I think mostly because she was a closet dyke.

I recruited Karma to cut my hair. She is a professional hair person who works in theater. I met her when the Executive Producer for Les Miserable was grooming me for the show, or perhaps to be his personal bitch, and sent me to her to adjust my mullet into a “Les Miz” hairstyle. She is into metaphysics and we took to each other immediately. I used to come by and visit her in her dressing room. I remember when Ricky Martin was starring in the show and came into the dressing room when I was there and I was like, “You’re like—oh…my…god—you’re Ricky Martin! I like so love that ‘La Vida Loca’ song. Could you sing it for me? Oh, I’m being stupid; you’re in the middle of the show right now. Can you maybe sing it for me after the show?”

After Karma’s initial haircut, I think she trimmed my split ends twice over the next 18 years and that was it. I was left to my own resources for my pubes. I thought that I was not just cutting my hair but my ego identification and it would be nice to have someone who I’ve known for almost two decades there to do the cutting. If only she were available for my circumcision!

Weeks passed by and it was hard to pin the spacey Nussy down to a day where he could come into the city and do his job. Long story short, it was a Wednesday when I was going to go from Mr. Hippie to Mr. Clean. On Tuesday night Nussy was telling me how he had to wait for a package or something the next day and couldn’t be there until… On the day of the shoot he ended up getting caught in traffic and turned around and went home.

I scheduled to meet Karma for the haircut at 2:00. I had scheduled Root to come over to my place at 11:00 so we could film a shot in the subway with the train coming and my hair blowing wildly and shots in nature where I could discuss the spiritual ramifications and explorations of what cutting my hair really meant. I also figured if we had a little extra time we could film each other having sex. I pitched this to her and she just laughed and so I didn’t pursue it anymore.

Root showed up 20-minutes late and I was not thrilled by this. She then told me that her camera needed to be plugged in to use it. Somewhat stunned I asked, “Do you not have a battery for it?” She started to explain how, “Yes, but no…” and I couldn’t hear anymore because I started seeing red. This was something big for me and I had my creative vision on how I wanted it to go—and besides the actual haircut most of the filming involved being outside. I had told her this! What the fu—?? I considered postponing the whole project until I could find a crew that didn’t consist of complete morons.

I suggested that we buy a new camera at the RadioShack on the corner and just return it when we were done. We went over there and after dealing with a Hispanic worker whose English was indecipherable, Root picked up a camera and a memory card and some batteries and quickly glanced at the instructions and we were off to the subway. Needless to say, the possibility that after a long day of shooting that he would say, “Oh, bad news. None of it came out,” weighed on my mind.

Whether I’m teaching a class or a workshop, I sometimes like to prepare a general outline of things but mostly rely on the spontaneity of immersing myself in the Flow and just riding the wave of creative energy that flows through me. I feel like one of the participants and am excited to see where the wave will lead me and am never quite sure if the final destination will be the shore or crashed and broken on the rocks.

They say, “The way to make God laugh is to tell Her your plans” but I was like, “Screw that! I’m the director of this project and if God doesn’t want to play ball then fuck her!” The say, “Go with the flow” but I was like, “This flow is feeling very menstrual right now!” They say, “We are all One” and I was feeling like, “If that’s the case and a part of me is that much of a moron, I think suicide is the best course of action.” They say, “Let go and let God” and I was like, “Fuck God and let’s go!”

The thing about getting into the Flow state is that it basically involves me getting out of the way and letting, if you would, God to come through. The more these little stressors and glitches and hiccups happen, the more I tend to be pulled back into my body and thereby fill up the space where God could come through. In my current state of discontent, I figured she would point the camera on me and ask, “What does this haircut mean to you?” and I would answer, “That everyone around me is an irresponsible idiot.”

But once we got into nature, my angst started to melt and, although the temple was slightly colder than She prefers, God started to enter me. And then I was flowing and no extra-strength Maxi would be able to absorb this flow.

I talked about the history of my hair, ego identification, Malcolm X, shared a Who Am I reflection and talked about Top Model. With the sprinkling of a bad joke or two, I was now feeling much better. We went back to my place and did some hairstyle shots, ate the fruit salad I had made for us and left for Karma’s for the haircut.

As we were walking down the steps of my apartment building, I voiced to Root that now that we were going for the haircut it seemed a little more “real” and that I was feeling a little nervous. She told me that I didn’t have to do it and while this was supportive of her, what she didn’t realize is that I had already jumped off the cliff and there was no getting back to the ledge.

We arrived at Karma’s building and she was just getting back from a quick step out. It was the first time I saw her in a year or two and we said our hellos. A part of me thought when I told her that I wanted to cut my hair that she was going to try to talk me out of it with something like, “Why? You’re hair is so beautiful!” Instead she was like, “Cool!” We finally connected our schedules and here we were.

I had Root take a gratuitous sexy clip of me shirtless and wearing a towel that I thought about including in the film to hook the gay audience. Now that they can marry, I figured this was an untapped market. And then I sat in the chair, Karma rapped me in a plastic sheet and out came the scissors.

First off she wrapped my ponytail tight with a hair-tie and then SNIP! And in a single pass of a scissor I went from a down to my shoulders hair guy to a down to my neck one. I joked as she was halfway through the ponytail, “Uh, I think I changed my mind,” but the only thing I had changed my mind about was from “tastes great” to “less filling.” I was planning to donate my hair to an organization like Wigs For Kids so some chemo kid could walk around with my lice-infected hair and walk around with an itchy head instead of a bald one.

Karma continued with a preliminary with the scissors, which I didn’t totally get as I thought the buzzers would bring us right down to the scalp but I conceded that she was the hair expert and I was the humble subject. We played around in stages: there was the short on the sides, long on the top; there was the buzzed on the sides, which was the first time I was like, “Alright, now I look weird!”; there was the foe Mohawk; and then there was the total buzz.

I was actually surprised—I didn’t look like a total wackjob with my head buzzed. I actually looked pretty good! The ladies kept commenting on how hot I looked and I thought for a moment that I was going to finally get that lifelong dream of mine of a ménage.

I made a joke stereotyping myself regarding my head that was buzzed to about a 5:00 shadow, “I don’t know what it is but suddenly I hate Jews, Blacks, Chinese and Hispanics.” The girls thought this a bit off-color but it was clearly a joke—I hated all these groups long before I buzzed my hair.

Besides seeking to reveal my True Self beyond the hair, something of less profundity I was hoping to reveal were the scars on my head. I have scars on both eyebrows. One opened up in a kickboxing fight and that one I can boast with machismo. The other one came on the day my fight team was traveling for a fight. I had one personal training client to train and then I was meeting the guys at the school. On the block of the gym I thought I passed a guy wearing a dress. I looked back once and continued on. I looked back again. I looked back a third time and when I turned forward, I walked headfirst into a metal light pole and made a deep gash that opened up a fountain of blood. Needless to say, Seafood will on occasion bring up how I cut open my head staring at a guy in a dress.

LESSON: when looking at men in dresses stop walking.

My forehead is a battleground of scars as well that mostly came from my rough and tumble youth and I don’t remember how they got there. I do remember falling down once and to my mother’s worry standing up with a small pebble stuck in my forehead. Little did she know that I could have been a pioneer in the piercing movement and instead just thought me a menace. Another time I was at Bobby Rosenbaum’s house and cracked my head on the end of his stairs’ banister.

More recently, about three years ago, I was in the bathroom preparing myself for leaving to my second Raw Spirit Festival and in my rush to do ten things at once, I smashed headfirst into the molding of the bathroom.

LESSON: When smashing into moldings don’t lead with your head.

The gash came up vertically from my left eyebrow and I knew it would lead to another marking on my forehead map. Despite applying this useless healing laser that I paid about $100 for from zeropointglobal, which should change their name to zeroeffectglobal, the wound didn’t heal scar-free. The other forehead scars are a mystery and, despite my grilling, my mother denies home abortion as their cause.

My main head scars were three. I have a horizontal scar and dent front and center on my head. This happened in college when I was running back to my dorm room to get my camera during a “dating game” event we were having and jumped from the top stairs only to hit mid-air the low ceiling with my airborn head. I literally knew about seven or eight people who had been skulled by this same low ceiling but the response I got when I reported it was, “You shouldn’t be running,” which probably single-handedly turned me into an anarchist, as I determined then and there that authority was useless.

My second big scar is on my left widow’s peak. When we went on road trips for the soccer team in college, we used to wrestle around in our hotel rooms. This was not only a test of manhood but also a nice change of pace from the nightly circle-jerks.

So one night I had tackled this guy good onto one of the hotel room beds but in my descent I had smashed my head into the metal bed frame and opened up a gusher. The next day during the game, the soccer ball came in the air to me and I turned my head so that I did a header with the right side of my head. Those privy to know what happened last night laughed and heckled me from the bench.

The third of the main head scars is on the back right of my head. I was younger and my mother had just stopped at some house in my neighborhood and left me and my dog Muffin, a brownish-red and white Siberian husky, in the car alone. She started to whine and like a scene from Lassie I was like, “What is it girl? Are you saying there is a burning house and someone in need?

I finally opened up the door and she pulled her leash and inadvertently my head into the bottom point of the open door. I cried as I said in anger, “Because of that we’re gonna let the people in the burning house die!” I was less of an animal lover back then and I think I held Muffin’s head in the open door and car-doored her until she stopped her whining. When my mother came back from her brief house visit I said nonchalantly, “How was your visit? Ah, that’s nice. Oh, and by the way, Muffin seems to have died from multiple brain contusions.”

Karma swept up my hair into a pile on the floor and asked me if I had wanted it. A part of me thought I could put it in a Zip-Lock bag and take it home but that would kind of defeat the whole “detachment” thing, both literally and physically and so I declined. I got down on my knees and instead of sucking cock like I was used to doing in this position, I mocked tears and shouted, “WHY DID YOU MAKE ME DO THIS??” The ladies found this hilarious and Root turned on her camera and caught it on tape. I thought this would be a funny end to the film.

Sliding my hand over my head it now felt like sandpaper. A little strange. It especially felt strange to feel the back of my head that way as opposed to my once long hair either free-flowing or in a ponytail. Looking into the mirror I commented that I looked like a handsome David Beckham. “Okay,” I conceded, “Maybe an ugly David Beckham.”

I treated my small crew to lunch at an Indian restaurant for which I had bought a voucher through one of those groups like Groupon. The bill ended up being about $85 before the discount, as I threw caution to the wind and my wallet to the dogs.

Finally we all parted ways and I found myself walking alone in a city of millions, more than occasionally glancing at my reflection in the glass of the store windows and wondering, “Who is that skinhead I am seeing and where did he bury the hippie?”

As I continued to walk I found it curious that all these people that, for the most part didn’t take any notice of me, had never known my appearance to be anything other than as it was today. It would be interesting to see how those who never knew my appearance to be anything other than that of a dirty, longhaired hippie would react.

I took a picture with my cell phone and sent it to my brother, the only person in my family that I told I was cutting my hair. He wrote back, “Looks pretty good!” I know he was readying the American flag for our photo shoot. I forwarded a few of my friends the photo and most reacted similarly but one must take into consideration that most of them are bald or seriously receding not by choice and they were probably happy not to have a long-haired reminder that they were bald eagles.

I came into my martial arts school while Seafood was teaching a busy 5:30 p.m. class with about 40 students.  I walked directly into the dressing room and heard Seafood laugh. Suddenly he burst through the curtains with a big smile on his face. It was about 15 years ago that I rolled into a different incarnation of his school with rollerblades and a black and white striped Rasta hat and he had never known me as anything other than a longhaired freak. Now he would have to orient himself to me being a shorthaired freak. We chatted briefly about it and then he went back to teaching his class. I was glad he was not a pilot sitting in the passenger’s area with someone asking, “Uh, aren’t you supposed to be flying the plane?” to which he would reply, “Those Arabic men with bomb vests told me to leave the cockpit,” to which total pandemonium would ensue.

Overall the reaction has been quite positive. Most people say that I look much younger and that they can see my eyes and my face more clearly now and that that was a good thing. A guy who hangs out down the block, probably a drug dealer, who in the year since I’ve lived here he and I have never exchanged a single word, commented, “You cut your hair,” and we had a small conversation. As a result, I converted all my marijuana purchases to his street front.

There were a few detractors. The ever-sour faced Sonar comes to my kickboxing class periodically and works for some company that specializes in products for curly hair and is mostly natural. She brought me in a deep conditioning product that I used and didn’t find to have much of a useful effect, similar to the zeroeffectglobal laser. Unlike the laser, at least this useless crap didn’t cost me a Franklin.

When I came in with my buzzed head, she looked at me with disappointment that almost seemed to border on anger, as if she were my mother bitching at me, “Why the hell would you do something so stupid?” a phrase that if I had a nickel for every time this was said to me growing up I would make Warren Buffet look like a pauper. It is possible that her expression was non-indicative of my hairstyle change and the effect of sniffing her kitty litter and having a cat turd forever lodged up in her nasal passages.

Regardless, I found it an almost bizarre reaction. My hair is mine to do with it what I like, that is a given that no one would deny—unless I were still with the controlling Ogre in which case I would probably no longer be in charge of my appearance, at least if I wanted to be seen with her. But why would you have any vested interest in my hair, unless it provided the convenience to grab onto while you were fucking me in the ass? While somewhat less changing, to me it is almost like changing my shirt and you saying to me, “Why did you change your shirt, I liked the one you were wearing yesterday?” Uh, okay. Get over it.

There were two girls in kickboxing class last week who appeared almost drunk in behavior but I think they were just loud and obnoxious and stupid. They were like, “Why did you cut your hair?? It looked better long!” This might have hurt my feelings if I gave a shit.

Yesterday at an all-day Osho meditation camp, one guy who I hadn’t seen in awhile said how he didn’t recognize me at first until he saw me dancing at the end and recognized my signature dance moves, such as the robot and the hitchhiker. He told me that the long hair had seemed to suit me. I told him to fuck off just to react in an unexpected manner. He ran off and cried in the corner. Pussy.

I haven’t seen her in class in a long time but I am curious about how the kickboxing student who told me that she likes tall guys with long hair and has invited me out to several events, including a party at her place with only three other girls will react. I was dating Ogre at the time and ended up not going to the semi-private party. I considered going to prove that I could withstand the temptations of ready and willing young poon but figured I’d probably fail that test and all I would prove was that I was just another douchey guy who is led by his cock. Will she still find me attractive or will suddenly she find me “not her type”? If it is the latter, this will exemplify how most only have eyes that can see surface deep and few have the radar vision to see through to the soul.

Because of an argument I had with my parents about them judging my lifestyle choices, I hadn’t seen them in a month and didn’t let them know about my dramatic hairstyle change. Apparently to them gay marriage is okay but taking it in the ass is not. Go figure. They hadn’t seen my head—other than the dick shot I sent to my mother’s email—until last night.  They both thought it was quite a change. My father said I looked twenty years younger and this frightened me, as he is known to have a propensity for young men. My mother while she didn’t like my long hair she did my curls and said she looked forward to it growing a bit. I told her that I am not her doll and why should she give a shit how I wear my hair. Perhaps I need another month off from my annoying parents. Hopefully they’ll die before our next planned dinner.

Ogre had told me, “I don’t know if I’ll want to be seen with you if you shave your head.” While I took this to be somewhat of a joke, it did reflect that she is probably more concerned with her appearance—and that meant having a bald bastard like me on her arm—than with the soul behind the dome. My mother used to ask me when I had my hair out and wild before we were going out to dinner, “Do you want to tie your hair up?” What she was really saying was, “I’m embarrassed to be seen with you because you having wild hair is a reflection on me.” They say you marry someone like your mother. Ogre is apparently like my mother and not just in the “likes to suck cock” department.

But for the most part, although it really matters little to me, people seem to dig it. Even Cheeks, the drug overlord of the area, told me that I look like a papi chulo, which essentially translates into “Mac Daddy,” and a movie star. Little did he know that I am already considered a movie star, at least according to the world of porn, although I still haven’t won an AVN award!

So how have I felt about my new doo?  Pretty good! I like the convenience of it, some of which you will see in the list of Pros and Cons below. I still look at myself in the mirror and in reflections and stare, not because I am a guy wearing a dress but because the image that I have seen staring back at me for the past 18 years is no longer in the mirror, mirror, on the wall.

PROS:

(1) Eliminate about an hour of morning prep time not having to shampoo, repeat, condition, repeat, dry, apply leave-in conditioner, comb, style and repeat.

(2) Save a fortune on hair-ties.

(3) A little cooler, as in temperature adjustment, for the summer.

(4) Can pull my New Age necklaces on and off without having to circumnavigate my ponytail.

(5) Doesn’t get in the way when I grabble during kickboxing.

(6) I look like a good-looking ugly version of David Beckham.

(7) Helps with sanding down 2×4’s during my home construction projects.

(8) Doesn’t get in my food, in my shower drain, in my sink, on my floor, in my mouth, in my ass.

(9) Feels tingly when I walk under low branches with leaves on my nature walks!

(10) Immediate acceptance into Skinhead and Neo-Nazi organizations.

(11) If I get into any fights with the Dominican douches in my area, they will have one less thing to use against me

.

CONS:

(1) I have an extra hour during the day that I am not prepping my hair and therefore less of an excuse to be an unproductive bum.

(2) Have a bunch of useless hair-ties hanging around.

(3) I can feel the sweat on my scalp. The only head that feels good wet…

(4) I have been conditioned to remove my hair-tie for my ponytail every time I get into the shower. This is not such a “Con” as I only shower once a week.

(5) Now when I get tired during kickboxing I can’t use the excuse of “adjusting my hair” to buy me some rest time. (The default has been, “Hang on, I’m having PMS cramps” but I am not sure anyone is buying it.)

(6) I have had several people look at me in horror and say, “David Beckham, did someone beat you with an ugly stick!”

(7) Have been breathing in a lot of sawdust since I developed a sandpaper head.

(8) Miss having my hair in my ass.

(9) Been yelling at Abandon more for her hair shedding all over the place. Before I was equally to blame and gave her a free pass (Abandon typed this one in.)

(10) Less free time on the weekends as I am usually out and about wearing black leather boots and kicking in the teeth of Jews and blacks.

(11) Less, or rather NO, variety in hairstyle capability.

(12) Scarry headwounds are visible.

(13) I have to wear eagle claw protective gloves in order to rub my head.

(14) My “X” baseball cap now doesn’t fit as snug.

(15) When dancing, my head feels kind of heavy and I have no “hair whip” to play with.

(16) 30-seconds of terrified screams every time I look into the mirror before I realize that it’s me.

The biggest Pro is that I feel like I have dropped a costume that I have been wearing for the past 18 years. This does not mean that my long hair was a falsity, just included in the package was an identification tag of who I am which was far from Who I Am. Even in the yoga/New Age world, the idea of the longhaired sage is almost cliché and while I know the words of Wisdom will still flow through me when I open to it, I wonder if the people coming to the theater will leave the show disappointed. “Some great musical numbers but I couldn’t get past the lame costumes.” The recent cut has left more than hair clippings on the floor. There were also pieces of an ego identification that on my head started to obstruct my ability to see my Self.

Now, like my hair clippings, they are in a trash can or on the way to help replace a bald chemo kid’s shiny ego head with one that is no more superior—as all egos are costumes—but that can perhaps give the little baldy some sense of peace for the moment, until she dies from the toxic drugs with which the medical world has used to poison her.

.

I am not my hair

I am not this skin

I am not your expectations no no

I am not my hair

I am not this skin

I am a soul that lives within

—“I Am Not My Hair” by India Arie