When it comes to beauty I’ve never put much thought into it. I was not blessed with any sort of stunning look, nor do people point and laugh at the sight of me. I’m very much an unremarkable blend of United Kingdom ethnicities resulting in middle of the road everything. When meeting new people I often hear, “you look just like my <insert relationship>!” A sign of a good mutt is that there are a lot of people that look like you, and they do. For myself, I would say looks fall comfortably into the lower third of my list of self-identity. I have not, to my recollection, ever had my beauty play a large role in my life. I would attribute my success at jobs, friendships, and boyfriends throughout life to my personality rather to my looks. In short, beyond the occasional hormone-driven burst of wanting to be beautiful just to “see what it feels like” (wahhhh-stomp-stomp) I really don’t consider myself particularly vain.
So I found it an unsettling experience when, due to some medical stuff, a huge chunk of my long hair fell out, and I didn’t react well.
Let me quantify the term “huge chunk”, it’s an oval with a diameter of 4 ½ centimeters (1.78 inches). Something roughly like this (begging apologies for different screen resolutions):
So I found it an unsettling experience when, due to some medical stuff, a huge chunk of my long hair fell out, and I didn’t react well.
Let me quantify the term “huge chunk”, it’s an oval with a diameter of 4 ½ centimeters (1.78 inches). Something roughly like this (begging apologies for different screen resolutions):
It doesn’t look like a lot does it?…until you find it missing from your scalp. At which point all jokes about how small two inches are become totally irrelevant and is replaced with the theory that 2 inches is actually the size of small planet. Okay, maybe not a proper planet, more like Pluto. Nonetheless…enormous! Galactic! Suck the U.S.S. Enterprise through a black hole with a Klingon** warship and room to spare, huge.
**Note: Klingon women are half bald and still bad ass.
Would it get bigger? Would it happen again? Would it grow back? Am I dying of something? When I got the answers they didn’t comfort me much.
No. Yes. Maybe. No. (respectively)
Why, upon finding the patch, was my reaction to lose my shit for half a day before regaining composure? Then knowing this isn’t going to kill me or limit my quality of life in any way, why was I still upset about this? Then it hit me, I had reached a small corner of my identity where my vanity was rooted in physical appearance. Apparently I love my hair, I put part of my self-identity in my hair. Much like many other woman love their eyes, breasts, or the curve of their ass, that is how I loved my hair. Put me on the bow of the Titanic, let me spread my arms and scream “I’m queen of the hair!”. Okay, now I’m just getting silly, but you get the idea. Hair is one of the few physical things I am tied to that defines my “beauty”.
I didn’t think I felt this way about my hair because I have, over the years, chopped it off and donated it to charities (how’s that for ironic?!). When faced with people's sad eyes looking at my shorten locks always said, “what’s the big deal, it will grow back”. But now…now that isn’t a guarantee. And it isn’t just short. Its gone. It may disappear whenever it wants from here on out. And that upset me. Apparently I’m not so casual about my vanity as I thought. Here is your serving of humble pie m’lady.
In post-eureka euphoria I sat back and thought, “this is horrible! Is this how vain women feel all the time? Is this that thing you hear about when pretty girls measure each other up when they walk into a room?” The horrible feeling, and how vicious of a cycle it could become, was quickly evident and I knew that I needed to resolve this alarmist reaction I was having. It seems that no good can come from having a primary identifier being linked to physical beauty, or an aspect of beauty, which has a built in expiration date. So me, my hair, scalp, and ego all sat there with a bottle of wine and had a Vanity Summit in my head.
It was a good summit. Everyone got to air their piece and all parties reached a consensus. It basically broke down into this is just how it is and there is no point in fighting it, or getting upset. It can’t be controlled or predicted so you are going to have to realize that your hair does not define you. It may enhance you. Others may dismiss you because of it, if they do so that is their prerogative. If things get bad in the future I’ll bring out the clippers and take back control. But for now, I run my fingers through my hair, touch my little bald spot and think…”it’s just one more thing that makes me, Me.”
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**Note: Klingon women are half bald and still bad ass.
Would it get bigger? Would it happen again? Would it grow back? Am I dying of something? When I got the answers they didn’t comfort me much.
No. Yes. Maybe. No. (respectively)
Why, upon finding the patch, was my reaction to lose my shit for half a day before regaining composure? Then knowing this isn’t going to kill me or limit my quality of life in any way, why was I still upset about this? Then it hit me, I had reached a small corner of my identity where my vanity was rooted in physical appearance. Apparently I love my hair, I put part of my self-identity in my hair. Much like many other woman love their eyes, breasts, or the curve of their ass, that is how I loved my hair. Put me on the bow of the Titanic, let me spread my arms and scream “I’m queen of the hair!”. Okay, now I’m just getting silly, but you get the idea. Hair is one of the few physical things I am tied to that defines my “beauty”.
I didn’t think I felt this way about my hair because I have, over the years, chopped it off and donated it to charities (how’s that for ironic?!). When faced with people's sad eyes looking at my shorten locks always said, “what’s the big deal, it will grow back”. But now…now that isn’t a guarantee. And it isn’t just short. Its gone. It may disappear whenever it wants from here on out. And that upset me. Apparently I’m not so casual about my vanity as I thought. Here is your serving of humble pie m’lady.
In post-eureka euphoria I sat back and thought, “this is horrible! Is this how vain women feel all the time? Is this that thing you hear about when pretty girls measure each other up when they walk into a room?” The horrible feeling, and how vicious of a cycle it could become, was quickly evident and I knew that I needed to resolve this alarmist reaction I was having. It seems that no good can come from having a primary identifier being linked to physical beauty, or an aspect of beauty, which has a built in expiration date. So me, my hair, scalp, and ego all sat there with a bottle of wine and had a Vanity Summit in my head.
It was a good summit. Everyone got to air their piece and all parties reached a consensus. It basically broke down into this is just how it is and there is no point in fighting it, or getting upset. It can’t be controlled or predicted so you are going to have to realize that your hair does not define you. It may enhance you. Others may dismiss you because of it, if they do so that is their prerogative. If things get bad in the future I’ll bring out the clippers and take back control. But for now, I run my fingers through my hair, touch my little bald spot and think…”it’s just one more thing that makes me, Me.”
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