The Abbess explained that she saw her reflection in a mirror one day and thought to herself how much she liked her hair. She then realized that she harbored an attachment to the coif, and since the whole point of Buddhism is lack of attachment, she immediately removed the locks with a razor. Her explanation has stuck in my mind all of these years. I admire that level of discipline.
I have tremendous respect for people, especially women, willing to do as the Abbess did. Two recent hair removal experiences occurred on The Amazing Race. During Race 5, Brandon and Nicole, the models, chose a Fast Forward in India which required they both shave their heads. The race is a game, right? Contestants should do whatever they have to do to win, right? These two Christians, however, couldn't imagine life without their precious tresses and chose to return to the Roadblock and complete it instead, landing them in last place. Poor Jesus, he used to have people willing to risk getting thrown to the lions; now he gets dimwits incapable of facing a head scraping with a straight-edge razor. Oh, I cried when Phil Keoghan, the host, explained that it was a non-elimination leg of the race, for I loathed Brandon and Nicole. During the last episode, I will never forget Brandon trying to inspire Nicole to hike her ass up Lookout Mountain in Calgary by exclaiming that she should imagine Christ the Savior, his arms outstretched, waiting for her at the top. Yeah, I'm sure Jesus cared whether those two assholes won a million dollars.
Joyce, one of the two winners of Race 7 [Uchenna, her husband, already had a shiny pate], impressed me for setting aside her "attachments" and, for the sake of her team's success, allowing the loss of her long, beautiful hair. She obviously understood how change is necessary for advancement—whether that advancement is winning the next leg of a reality TV show race or gaining a better understanding of the human condition. Even if she and Uchenna hadn't won, the strength and wisdom gained from the shaving experience would have followed her through the rest of her life.
Melissa Etheridge is another example. Her bald Grammy appearance last year indicated a willingness to embrace the life changes that had occurred from breast cancer.I too have faced the disposable Daisy and a can of Barbasol. When I learned that my cancer treatment would include chemo, I got my shoulder-length hair cut pixie short. Still, it seemed too long for the inevitable shedding, so I let Elizabeth use her horse clippers to buzz it to half an inch. Even that short length caused a mess in the shower once the hair loss began, so I finally foamed up what was left and shaved myself bald. I believed that taking some control during treatment when I had little say helped me avoid getting really depressed. One of my doctors, if I ever resisted his many instructions or balked at the time of an inconvenient appointment, would ask, "What? You're too busy to let me save your life?"
How many times have I sat waiting for a haircut, listening to the inane complaints around me? "Do you see this?" a woman once asked the receptionist, holding a handful of ends. "Do you see how they stick out?" Get over it, lady! One stylist wanted to know the name of the idiot who had cut my hair so unevenly. It was uneven? Gosh, with strands four inches long, I hadn't even noticed that one side was a sixteenth of an inch off. I can sit in a salon chair now and say to the stylist—even if he/she is a complete stranger—"Whatever you want to do." It's just hair. It grows out; it grows back. The perfect symbol for life, hair is constantly changing and only a very foolish person would obsess over good vs. bad hair days.
The hairstyle doesn't make someone look old; age does. The hairstyle doesn't make someone look fat, thin, tall, or short; weight and height do. Attempting to affix an ex-moment of life with a combover, a glaze of hairspray, or a dye job seems incredibly silly to me and terrible preparation for a future that has a good chance of holding inevitable hair loss.
