Seeking Validation

When I was a kid, we were too poor to afford a haircut. I was 13 and had never had one. No one in my house had. I grew up in section 8 housing and my mom was on welfare. Even though we grew up in a poor neighborhood, my mom was the only adult I knew who didn’t work. Even among poor people, I felt like I wasn’t good enough. I always felt like I had to fight to be like everyone else, whatever that meant.

A couple of kids in my neighborhood had recently gotten haircuts. They were nothing special, but their new looks still added some pep to their step on the playground. I had only ever known a sad ponytail. The kind of ponytail that is secured at the base of your head. This type of ponytail only looks good on certain people and certain styles. For me, the chubby girl in the overalls, the low pony was not what I wanted to be remembered for.

I decided, it was time for me to take matters into my own hands. I would cut my own hair. I was used to doing my own hygiene and healthcare. The most extreme case being my tooth extraction with a wrench. So, a haircut did not seem like a big deal.

I took a shower because I knew you needed to wash your hair first. Then, I started cutting my wet hair, one side at a time. I could not quite get the length right. So, I would cut one side and then the other, and then the other. I cut an inch at a time and carefully placed the cut hair in the bathroom trashcan. I eventually stopped obsessing over symmetry because my hair was now at my ears and I was afraid to go any further and look like a boy.

With my wet-short hair, I felt amazing. Like I was a rad surfer chick without a care in the world. I stood in the mirror and shook my head from side to side laughing as my hair whipped me in the face. I rushed over to my neighbor’s house, who had recently had a haircut, to show off my surfer locks. She was a mean girl who I was always seeking approval from. The type that was nice to your face, but was spreading rumors about you behind your back. She looked at me scrupulously. “They didn’t dry your hair for you?”

“No. Why?”

“Because you have really curly hair and your hair is straight when it’s wet. By the time it dries, it will be three times as short as it is now. You’re going to look like a boy. Where did you get it done?”

“Good Cuts down the street,” I replied.

She was on to me. I needed to cover my lie quickly. “They asked me if I wanted it super short and I said yes. That’s probably why they didn’t dry it.”

I don’t think she really cared as much as I wanted her to. So, I went to the next neighbor’s house to show off my hair to the boy I liked. He also met me with a healthy dose of skepticism: grilling me with questions to verify my story. None of this scrutiny deterred me or made me feel bad about my haircut. I was determined to wear it with pride.

As I sat there working to convince him of my lie, I heard someone yelling outside. We both became silent as we tried to make out the commotion. I recognized the voice and immediately felt ill. It was my mom. She was screaming my name as loud as she could in the middle of the apartment complex. I reluctantly went outside, where other neighbors had already started to gather. My mom was scanning the crowd like she was ready to kill somebody.

“ANGELA! ANGELA! WHERE THE FUCK IS ANGELA!”

My eyes were drawn to her hands. Streaming through her clenched fist was my cut off hair, and clasped in the other hand were the scissors I had used. I stood there still, as I watched all these kids in my neighborhood start to laugh at me and at my mentally ill mother. My mom usually never left the house, so there were a lot of rumors in the neighborhood about who my mom was and what was “wrong” with her. She had bipolar disorder and her moods were unpredictable. For the most part, I tried to steer clear of her. She also had agoraphobia, which for my mom, was a fear of public places. So her appearance outside was a rare event. It was clear that she was having a manic episode and I wanted to melt away. I wanted to disappear.

My mom continued to yell my name as if she was mourning my death, until she locked eyes with me. Then, like an angry bull, she charged towards me and stopped just two inches away from my face. I flinched as I braced myself for the familiar smack to the face or punch in the stomach.

“WHAT IS THIS?” She held up her fist of hair so that I could see it out of my peripheral vision. I didn’t answer. The boy I liked was standing right next to us, staring in horror at what was happening to me.

WHAT THE FUCK WERE YOU DOING CUTTING YOUR OWN HAIR? YOU LOOK UGLY!” She was yelling through clenched teeth and I was terrified. The whole neighborhood was watching us. As my mom continued to yell; I stopped hearing her and my vision started to get blurry with tears. She grabbed me by the arm and drug me into our house where the beratement continued.

No one wanted to be friends with me after that. I was the loser kid who lied to be cool. The young teenage girl who now had a curly helmet plastered to her head and who had a crazy mom everyone was afraid of. I was a resilient kid though. I kept cutting my own hair and got pretty good at it. To this day, I have never set foot in a professional hair salon: something I brag about now.