why i cut my hair

it happened again. i broke. we're talking the beginnings of a major meltdown. i lay curled up on the couch, focusing all my energy on stopping the coming storm. hours before, i had sat on that couch and politely watched as the man i had shared a bed with that night showed me pictures and videos of his other life as a drag queen, and all his drag queen friends. just prior to that, i found something on his privates that i am still not sure wasn't a wart. this was AFTER a night of romping about in the sack.

at that point, i was ready to swear off men forever. lying, cheating, slippery, egotistical bastards. fuck 'em all, and not in the good way. what kind of guy messes around with you and fails to tell you that he might have an STD? a selfish pig, that's what kind!

i was a little turned off and disturbed by the pictures and videos. just not my thing, men pretending to be women. we're men, damn it, that's what is attractive about us. i know some people will criticize me for being narrow minded, but i don't give a damn. that's how i see it.

i drove him home, gave him a peck on the cheek, and swore i'd never see him again.

so then, laying on the couch, it all started to hit me: who i had become, what i had done, how much of a whore i'd been without even having experienced 100% gay sex. i started to crash. silent sobs shook my body, and i covered my face with my hands. all i had ever wanted was love and affection, and i was trading it for this shit. i was becoming all i despised for a cheap thrill, to be big and bad like the guys i secretly envied. and i was not cut out for it.

i started to panic. there was no one around. it was late. most of my decent friends were in bed already. the one i texted told me to call him tomorrow. i started thinking back to the first breakdown--two hours of straight sobbing in my parent's arms. but now they were hours away, and i was alone in a big empty quiet house.

and then it hit me. i needed my daddy. it always comes back to that. time and time and time again, he is the stem of all of this. i need him so badly, and it's pretty much too late for that.

as this realization came over me, my sensible voice in my head said to me, "self, you can have your meltdown and become a heap of mess, or...

...you can cut your hair."

i calmed down. alright then, i would cut my hair.

clippers were all i needed. in the bathroom, i stripped naked. i used the smaller set of clippers to shave my beard. taking the bigger ones, i put on the 3/8" guard and ran it up the sides of my head, watching the thick brown hair fall to the floor. the buzz of the clippers blended with the vibrations of the blades against my head. i switched to a 1/2" guard and trimmed the top of my head, the denseness of the hair almost stopping the blades. i ran the trimmers over my head a few more times, catching the stray long hairs. i brushed the hair off and looked at myself...

naked. new. clean. a little bit of cut hair still remained on my shoulders and chest from where it had rained down. but i was no longer the weak little boy on the couch. i was someone else, someone new.

it took me a few days to realize why i needed to cut my hair.

i grew up poor. i never knew it. my parents lived very frugally. i thought we were royalty. my parents were proud people, respectable, smart. not college-educated entirely, but intelligent. because times were rough for us (mostly), Dad learned to cut our hair--my brothers and i. i remember it pretty clearly, a rarity for me. i would take off my shirt, sit down in a chair in the kitchen, and remain still while Dad took out the clippers and scissors. [i haven't quite figured out the scissors yet.] he would cut it the same way every time, so i had the same haircut for 20 years, until i learned to cut my own hair. he would use the clippers on the sides, and the scissors on the top. i remember the feeling of his fingers in my hair, carefully measuring how long each lock should be, and snipping my hair right above his thick fingers. i can still feeling the buzz and vibration of the clippers on my temporal and occipital bones. he would finish it off by sprinkling baby powder on my shoulders and brushing the hair off gently. i would then rush to find a mirror and proudly show Mom my new haircut from Dad. over the next week or so, he would fondly tease on a daily basis, "hey... lemme ask you something... who cut your hair?" i would laugh, knowing full well he was proud of his work and frugality.

as i look at my short hair now, i realize that those were the closest times me and Dad have ever had. sure we hug and kiss like normal families do, but i don't have memories of Dad touching me, holding me, cuddling with me, making sure i felt safe and protected. the most he ever lovingly touched me... was when he cut my hair.

and so, on nights when i feel alone, or depressed, or overwhelmed... i cut my hair.