An Open Letter to My Hair II: The Long and Short of It


About four years ago, I wrote a post entitled “An Open Letter to My Hair.”

And, well, things have changed for me since then.

After I was introduced to feminism, I started to learn more about myself and my relationship with femininity. I came to realize that long hair was not really helping me feel feminine, even though it is the traditional prescription for women and girls. Its frizzy, tickly nature weighed me down until I felt more like an ogre than a girl. And although Princess Fiona is a lovely lady, the swamp life wasn’t really my speed.

I was done with long hair. For about a month, I would ponytail it, then tuck it into a knit hat with the tips sticking out to appear like bangs. My face seemed rounder and younger, but I still preferred the short hair look. So, finally, I got it lopped off.

casually anonymous picture of my pixie cut

casually anonymous picture of my pixie cut

Best decision ever.

Now that my abbreviated waves rule over the lands, I’m happier and more confident with how I look and who I am.

The responses to my haircut were overwhelmingly positive, with only a few people thinking it okay to suggest that I should grow it back out (Hint 1: it’s not okay. Hint 2: I won’t). Only a few times have I been mistaken for a guy–– which is great, because I’ve never felt more female.

Yes, my icon has been a lie for some time nowscreen-shot-2016-11-12-at-11-09-25-am. I’ll change it––as soon as I find an avatar generator that allows the user to put short hair on a woman. Until then, I’ll continue living a lie online, while being my truest self in person.

I might not look the way a woman is supposed to, but that doesn’t matter. Because I feel like a woman is supposed to.

CIao for now,

Mikki

In My Hair: A Poem


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When my hair gets too long,
my scalp itches like a bog.
The inch-long flips behind my ears
are robust brown broomsticks
which witches can ride. Cats howl from the cemetery
at the base of my skull. The tide rolls out

and comes back along my bangs,
carrying with it discarded cardboard
and crumpled soda cans. Seeming an army,
a breeze through my hair feels

caked in mud, dropping
to its elbows to crawl
through vine-swinging jungles, breath stilted
in the swampy air. Certainly, I think,
some thick, exotic species
resides here on my head:
some long-forgotten moth, a mushroom
that kills.

So I wash it
three times a day. I chop it off.
I let nothing come of it. The lavish locks–
banana curls the color
of chocolate pudding–are not worth
the burden of the in-between.
I am starting to believe
nothing is.

(A/N: I am so close to 500 followers! It’s so exciting!)

You and Me


Once upon a time, two people fell in love

in a place flooded with light.

The grass was littered with dandelions,

and he picked them and made her a bouquet.

He said, “For the lovely mystery

whose hair glitters in the sun,”

and he gave her the flowers.

She said, “For the handsome vision

whose eyes sparkle in the starlight,”

and she gave him her hand.

Quietly, they pressed their fingers together,

watching the sun disappear behind infinity.

The moon came to fill the hole in the sky

and brought a purple blanket.

He said, “The moon is ours.”

She said, “The sky is ours.”

They fell onto their backs and

watched the comets fly by in his pale irises.

Each time, she made a wish.

In the morning, he woke to the sight

of rainbows. Gently, he touched his hand

to the diamonds of her pale curls.

In the morning, she woke to the sight

of a closed smile and put her lips to it.

He said, “You are the wonders of the world.”

She said, “You are everything that is right.”

He said, “You are the allure of the day.”

She said, “You are the splendor of the night.”

Why the Lady at the Hair Salon is Probably an Evil Sorceceress on a Mission to Destroy Mankind


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It’s been a pretty long time since my last haircut, and for this reason I had split ends galore . I needed about three inches cut off, and finally I had the time yesterday afternoon to get it done, so off I went to, unbeknownst to me then, was my certain doom.

Within moments of signing in I was beckoned to my horrible fate. The first thing the lady starts doing is shunting through my thick, curly hair with a teeny tiny little comb. I could hear each strand as it screamed in agony. Come on, lady, I thought. If you’re going to take a weed whacker to my hair, at least spray a little water on it first so I don’t have to listen to it. But mercilessly, she kept tugging in the same little pattern. It was like Chinese water torture.

Then I felt the scissors. The cold, merciless scissors. They were so close to the base of my neck. So frighteningly close. That has to be more than three inches, I thought, listening to the sounds of a year’s worth of growth collapsing to the ground in a hazy mess. And with it went my pride, my happiness, and my will to live. (Maybe I’m exaggerating.)

All in all, that lady took a lot more hair than I had anticipated. When it dried and curled up, it came up nearly to my shoulders, which is a big change. And the worst, most wicked part in the lady’s wicked scheme is that no one else noticed. Only I am vulnerable to the torture she inflicted. Now, only I notice when I run my hands through my hair and the hair stops short. Only I miss the long, luscious strands when I look in a mirror.

She is a sick, twisted woman.

Ciao for now,

Mikki

An Open Letter to My Hair


Dear Hair,

I love you. I hate you. I love you. I hate you.

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You look like her hair, but you look natural.

You are a lovely shade of dark chestnut and have hints of orangey tangerine in the sunlight. You frame my face like one of those painting frames that’s prettier than the actual painting. You curl and swirl on my shoulders and down my back, you are fun to run my fingers through. When you are clean, you are shiny like in a shampoo commercial. You are the curls all the stars want but look fake in. You are luscious and beautiful.

But.

You have all these split ends and some days, like today, I can use as much conditioner as it would take to fill the Mississippi River, and31K88bmtSgL._SY300_ you will have more knots and tangles than the love stories in Friends. On these days, you are coarse and horrid and dry. You have split ends that have split ends that have split ends, and no matter how many split ends I snip there are always more to be snipped. You fall into my food, and you drop yourself all over my house. Things get stuck in you and I don’t even notice. You are mousey and filthy.

But.

I suppose that much is my fault. I swirl you around with my finger and damage you, I roughly run combs through your strands, I ruin you with chlorine every time I go to swim. When I style you with elastics, I can hear you tear as I put them in and pull them out.

I’m so sorry, Hair. You are the best thing a girl could ever have, and yet I abuse you. Even after you make me look bad in public and make a mess in the shower drain, you are a dear friend. I hope you can forgive me.

You are beautiful, you are stylish, you are curly and bouncy. I love you, Hair.

Ciao for now,

Mikki