Cutting through the years
Crown of changing years
scissors cut but don’t define
still, I grow again.
This morning, I was supposed to go to the hairdresser.
The last time I had an actual appointment was probably in 2022. So yeah, it felt like a big deal. I thought maybe it’s time to share my hair story. Not just about hair, really, but everything tangled up in it.
As a kid, I always had bangs and medium-long hair. Safe. Simple. Then I became a teenager and started playing with color, mostly coupe soleil, and once a reddish with a purple glow. It was around 2007-ish. You know.
In my twenties, I tried new shapes: asymmetric bob lines, styles I don’t even have words for anymore. Just experimenting. My aunt is a hairdresser, and she liked to try things. I usually said yes. My mindset was always: it’ll grow out. And if it’s really terrible? Wigs exist.
She dyed my hair grey once, I loved it! But my natural hair is super dark, and the grey didn’t last. Going for treatments every week weakened my hair badly. So in 2017, I made a decision: no more coloring. No more chemicals. Back to basics.
I made my own shampoo. Dry powder. Special sprays. Just water and natural things. My hair recovered, kind of. But it always looked… not clean. A bit greasy. I ignored comments. I felt free.
I stopped going to the hairdresser altogether. Cut my own hair..crooked, uneven. Didn’t really care.
Then I got pregnant in 2020 and stopped cutting it. I bought a natural shampoo from a store. My hair grew thick and strong, like magic. Then after giving birth, it fell out. Not all, but enough to make me feel broken. I considered getting a wig. It hurt my confidence more than I expected.
In 2022, I finally went to a hairdresser again. Just for the ends. It was the first time since the baby that I did something for myself. And it felt… soft. Tender.
But in March 2023, something snapped.
I had just stopped breastfeeding. My PMDD came roaring back, and I didn’t realize what was happening. During a discussion with my husband, the emotions overwhelmed me so violently that I grabbed scissors and hacked off my hair.
It was ugly.
I mean, really. Not in a self-deprecating way. Just .. bad. I was so ashamed I started wearing headscarves every day. I looked like a religious woman: Muslim, maybe Jewish. I didn’t mind that. I actually found a kind of comfort in it.
My faith is Orthodox Christian, and I had been thinking about head coverings for a while. More and more women in the community were talking about covering their hair to focus on prayer, on God. That idea reached me, and it felt meaningful.
But truthfully? It didn’t bring more focus. It just made me painfully aware of my insecurities and judgments toward others. And eventually, when my hair grew a bit, I stopped wearing the scarves in daily life. It’s common to wear them in church, but here in Western Europe it still feels… foreign outside of it. My Romanian friend told me it’s more normal there, women in her village wear headscarves every day.
I do think the history behind head covering is fascinating. But that’s for another time.
Anyway
the point of this ramble is that this morning, I had a hair appointment. First one in a long while. And I was actually excited. My husband encouraged me! He said it would be nice for me to have something gentle and uplifting. I agreed.
I booked a perm and a regular cut. At 11 a.m. Specifically 11, because our little one would be at school and my husband would be home. That time mattered. I had even planned to take the bike, enjoy the weather, go to the library after. A whole self-care kind of day.
And then I got there and they told me the appointment was at 10.
I was stunned. Embarrassed. I kept saying sorry. The woman looked annoyed. I didn’t even argue. Just made a new appointment and left.
Later, sitting at the library, I checked my email to see where I went wrong.
I didn’t.
It was at 11. I had been right.
And somehow, that made everything worse. Not because of the mix-up.. not really. But because now, the experience was clouded. Tainted. A swirl of guilt, shame, confusion, frustration. All over… hair.
It’s stupid, I know. But it’s not. Because it’s never just about the hair. It’s about being seen, being wrong, being not taken seriously. It’s about all the layers we wear and shed. Headscarves and silence. Crooked cuts and quiet forgiveness.
I believe in compassion. I believe in forgiveness. But I’m not a saint. I need some time before I can walk back into that salon without feeling like a fragile glass about to crack.
Thankfully, I have a few weeks. Maybe these feelings will fade.
Probably.
I’ll try.
Until, whenever 🐦⬛