I was running late this morning and could not shower after my workout at the gym. It’s quite gross, I know, but the 7:14 is unforgiving and the train waits for no one, not even Dashing Dan. It was thinking of this that made me begin to think of hair as the rings on a tree, as a sponge of time, if you will. As a dendrochronologist would point out and as I was taught on the Pischt Tree Farm by my father as a young girl; the length between the rings of a tree are indicative of its health each year- they can be telling of the climate, insect attacks, droughts, etc. etc. You can tell the age of the tree by counting these rings- either by looking at the cross section of a dead tree, or in a process in which an increment borer is inserted into a living tree and the vascular cambium is be extracted (something my father also showed me on the tree farm.) Well, thank goodness increment borers are not useful on humans. Instead, I look at my hair as my personal history timeline.

Strumming my fingers through my hair, I was touching not only my hair, but the dust from the Society, the exhaust from the New York City taxi cabs, the sweat from my morning workout. I was touching the same hair that Thomas had ran his fingers through last night, the same hair that Jeff touched while he was telling me good bye through his tears, the same hair that has pressed against the hair of my family and friends- those living and those no longer with us, the same hair that rested on the shoulders of friends while they comforted me, the same hair that friends have cried on while comforting them. I see the line in my hair that seperates my natural hair color and my dyed color. I see where my hair started turning grey, about an inch or two ago from last year, I see where my hair was once smooth and thick, but now thinning at the roots… I can use it as a timeline for events in my life as a dendrochronologist would a tree.

Hair is unique in the fact that it does not shed, it falls out. It is dead upon arrival, so to speak. It is not living, it does not shed and grow as skin… the hair that was once on top of your head is still with you a year later, unless you had cut that portion off.

I still have the hair that was once hot pink in color, from the time in my life in which I lived to give my parents ulcers. I have the hair that was once black and now heavily damaged from numerous bleach washes to return it to a natural shade. The same hair that was with me when I lived in washington is still with me now… I don’t believe that can be said for any other physical aspect of myself. Is this why I am so afraid of chopping off my hair? Whenever I go to the salon I say “keep it at its length” and scrutinize the work the hairdresser is doing, as to prevent any additional hair being cut. Am I so fixated on my hair because it is a true artifact of my personal history?

Hair is a large part of not only our culture, but of cultures around the world- both past and present. In America, men tend to lose their sense of masculinity and identity on losing their hair and becoming bald. Women find it embarrasing when their hair begins to thin and go through extreme and expensive lengths of volumizing and coloring their hair. We straighten it, we curl it, we pull and tug at it… a bad hair day becomes a bad day for us. It was and is Japanese tradition for a woman to cut off her hair as an expression of mourning (ie: Yoko Ono shedding her long locks after John Lennon was killed.) Monks shave off their hair as a symbol of releasing vanities in modern life. Native Americans decorated their hair with beads and feathers. They scalped their enemies, believing that obtaining their hair was in essence, obtaining their virility. The Bible has even reflected the importance of hair when the Philistines cut the hair of Samson, thus gaining his strength. I had very long hair as a child, to the point that I nearly gave myself whiplash every time I sat down. My first haircut was in fifth grade, by our dear family friend, Ellen. My next haircut was in tenth grade, I had cut my hair very short as a stupid act of rebellion. It served somewhat as stress and anxiety relief, I believe this was common as most music videos displaying teen angst always featured a kid in the mirror cutting or shaving their head… to quote Kurt Cobain in Lithum: “I’m so lonely. And that’s ok. ’cause today I shaved my head.”

So, in short, our hair is so much a part of us, so much a part of our history. It does not decay as the rest of the body does in decomposing. It is with us through all of our stages. Could this be why certain women cry when their hair is cut short? Why we become livid when the one inch we tell the hairdresser to trim turns out to be three? Why older women get their hair cut very short when they reach their mid life? Why I am afraid to lose an inch of hair? Do I not want to let go of the only part of me that is left from certain milestones in my life?

How do you feel connected to your hair?