The chair in the waiting area felt just about like any other. An uncomfortable cushion with an annoying plastic back that presses into your body. Honestly, just salt in the wound compared to my presence in the room. My leg is bouncing up and down, anxiously waiting for my turn. I look at all the seats in the room, when finally, someone grabs my attention. “Hey man, what can I do for you?” It’s my turn. I look up at the barber. I’m wondering the same thing.
It was something I wanted to do all through high school. I had seen other people pull it off and I really wanted to as well. My parents weren’t educated on the subject as much and neither was I, so it had never come to fruition. But the thought always sat in the back of my brain. What if I really did change that aspect of myself? This thought really took root in July of 2020 when a group of family and friends took a trip to Glenwood, Arkansas to float the river. We were on the cool water for hours, surrounded by pale gray rocks and tall pine trees that covered the ground for miles. It was freeing as we enjoyed our time outside after being kept in the world for so long.
The trip lasted for six miles, and we were coming up on the end when I noticed a man standing in the distance. He had exactly what I had been wanting. That shoulder length, long, curly hair that was blowing in the breeze. Up to this point, the only thing I’d experienced with my hair was a short, buzzed look. I trekked through the flowing water and got his attention.
“I’m sorry,” I started, “but I love your hair, how long have you been growing it? It’s awesome.” He looked at me and smiled. I couldn’t see his eyes through his sunglasses, but his demeanor was friendly. “Man, this has probably been growing for about four years now, I think.” I nodded. “Do you do anything in particular to it?” I asked him. He shook his head and said, “Not really. I just
shampoo and condition it, and let it air dry and that’s about it.” I thanked him for talking to me and we both went back to our lives. I knew then that I would only get one more cut before I grew out my hair during the next four years while I was in college.
I was sitting in the on-campus Chick-fil-a with my friends when a woman walked through the entrance. Normally I would not pay attention to this, but her braids fell all the way to the ground. Down to her ankles. I was truly blown away by this. It was an insane piece of expression that caught my eye. I had never seen anything like it before. Box braids the length of her body that were orange at the end. I haven’t seen that girl in a long time, but she left a long lasting impression on me.
Over the past four years I managed to grow out a long, soft afro that always gets me compared to Corbin Bleu in his “High School Musical” days. Whenever I get asked about my now long and curly hair, everyone always refers to it in a positive tone. “That hair is awesome, man. I wish I had some like that.” “That’s some great hair you got there.” “Oh I just love your hair.” I always appreciate the compliments because the reason I grew my hair out in the first place revolved around my parents not liking my long hair in the past. Back in high school when my hair was the second longest it had ever been, my parents told me that I “looked homeless” or like “no one took care of me.” I still to this day am not sure why. There is a cultural difference between me and my family. I am a mixed individual, and my mom and stepdad are white, as are my siblings, so they didn’t really understand the texture of my hair. Neither did I, but since then they have changed their tune. Regardless, my long hair has become my rebellion against all the haircuts I just “had” to get growing up. It is one of my most defining features and I cannot see myself changing that soon. It was my expression of me.
Over the last 4 years almost, I let my curls grow. I had it pictured in my head. I was going to change my whole style, my attitude, and most importantly: my hair. Shoulder-length, curly hair that is incredible. I was a new man of course, going to college and all. I made the changes and stopped picking it out to avoid the afro look and let my natural curls take form. As a 22-year-old, my hair is now the longest it has ever been and is way less glamorous than I pictured it my freshman year of college. It is a lot of work to maintain, but I love it and I cannot see myself without it. As time has gone on, I have gotten ambitious and wanted to try more things with my hair to make it more versatile, but overall, this is the look I have stuck with.
Being at NSU there are so many people around with so many different hair colors and styles. Why do they do that? What made them choose that? What does it mean? Does it mean anything? For me, I knew having my hair long meant something to me because I always wanted it to be long. But I wanted to know more. I was on my way to class one day when I noticed I was relatively close to someone else with incredibly red hair. It was like a buzz cut that had grown out a little bit. Short on the sides, a little taller on the top. However, the main thing I noticed was just how red it was. Was it naturally this red? His name is Parker, and he is a junior Biology major here at NSU. I wanted to ease my way into a conversation, so I started with a compliment.
“Hey, I really like your hair.” He turned around and looked at me with a smile. “Thank you.” he said. I knew I had my in for the conversation but I needed more information. I followed up with how long he has been growing it, to which he replied with probably five months. He gets it cut somewhat regularly. I asked him if there was any particular reason, he was doing what he was
doing with his hair, whether it is the length, style, or whatever. Parker said, “No not really, my hair is just naturally this color, and this is just how I brush it. I don’t typically think too much about it.” I thanked him for his time, and we went our separate ways, but this was eye-opening. This interaction helped me realize that sometimes not everything has a reason.
Down the street from my sophomore year dorm there was a room of girls that were friends with my roommate. The first thing I noticed was one of the girls had really short, blue hair. Admittedly, I found this to be a little strange, but college is all about growing as a person. Two years later, present day, I have a class with this girl. Her hair isn’t blue anymore, but it is still short. I wonder if having long hair bothers her or something. Maybe she just doesn’t like it.
There was a reason for me though. This was what I wanted. My long hair. My freedom to grow it after years of being asked or made to keep it cut. It was me. So, what was I doing here in this barbershop. Why was I sitting in this chair? The only conclusion I came to was that there was no reason for me to be. “You know what? I’m good, actually,” I say. I start towards the door and turn back to the barber. “Thank you for your time.”
As I’m walking to my car, I realize that I’m not ready for my hair to be gone. It is a part of me, literally and figuratively. Over the past four years I have learned how special it is for me to be able to wear my hair however I wanted to wear it. So, I’m going to keep it long. I have the freedom to be myself, so the least I can do is that.
