Hair, History, Personality

Yesterday, I got my hair cut.

Not a full cut, though, just along the hairline, all cut short to give the illusion of short hair when I have the rest of my hair tied up behind me. A lot of people have been fooled by this, and this pleases me, because it's the exact reaction I wanted - a change, but not a change, sort of superficial, more flexibility in my appearance, but still maintain the core of the rest of it.

For those who don't know what I look like, my hair has reached beyond the small of my back and before the haircut, was touching the back of my thighs. I had my last major haircut in 1997, when my hair was as short as my new hairstyle looks now. I let it grow, had some cuts in '98 and '99, and after that, I sort of let my hair go to seed. Of course, I had to randomly chop off some split ends. But in general, it has been growing long and unevenly due to my random cutting.

Sometimes, when I'm feeling self-destructive, I sit next to the trashcan with a pair of scissors, and start viciously cutting off random bits of hair. I don't do it very often now. Cutting my hair was preferrable to the option of cutting my flesh. That, and I'm a bit vain when it comes to my hair, so I get turned off by my self-destructive moods after a while.

I honestly love my hair. I love its length, I love its blackness, I love the unevenness, I love everything about it except the split ends. I have had several compliments on my hair. I had no bangs though, so I always ended up feeling bald because my forehead is so wide.

It troubles me, therefore, when people close to me tell me to cut my hair. Why do they want me to cut my hair? "Because it's too long". I'm aware that it's touching the floor and that it's heavy so sheds a lot. But that's not too long. Too long indicates that I can't (or won't) take responsibility for it. My best friend says that the way I tied it up looks messy. (I tended to tie my hair up in a "bun", which only ended up looking like a loop with the ends hanging down.) I've always liked the way it looked, but she said it looked "strange" and that since "people judge by appearances, they'll have a negative impression." I haven't exactly given a negative impression of myself through my appearance. Just my behaviour.

My mother says it's too long. "It'll get caught in machinery," she says. When will I ever go near machinery?

Another close friend just says it's too long and never gives a straight reason.

What's wrong with long hair? When I hear "it's too long", I always feel like I'm "too much". Which I suppose I can be since I can tend towards superficial flambouyancy.

So I'd consider cutting my hair and think, "I can't handle losing it all now." I look at my hair and marvel how it flows down my back. I bend over and brush my hair over my head. I feel its length between my fingers. I hear it swish behind my ear when I toss it back.

This length of hair is more than just hair. It's a source of pride, and it's a source of comfort. It's an indication of how much I trust people: only those I really trust are asked to brush my hair. If I feel uncomfortable with someone touching my hair, chances are, I just dislike that person.

Very long hair like mine is rare these days. People seem to have the impression that long hair is a lot of trouble. They wonder how I manage to take care of it, how often I wash it. I tell them that it's not a whole lot of maintainence at all. One gets used to washing hair, and after a while, one gets the knack of washing hair in thirty minutes instead of taking hours like most people assume. (When I wash my hair, I take a shorter time than my brother takes when he's having his everday shower.) That, and since I just leave it long, I don't go to the hairdresser. Beginning of last year though, I started dyeing a streak of my hair from the front down a beautiful deep pink colour.

I like trying to curl my hair because it's straight and boring. When I do that, my best friend complains that it looks messy. That's what curly hair is like. Messy.

When I cut my hair, she said, It looks glossy now.

But that's only because it's all an even length now. Uneven hair doesn't look glossy. That's why Pantene commercials all have women who have the exact same hairstyle.

When I walk around in school with my hair down, I make a statement as the only Chinese person with really long hair.

Now, I have short hair and long hair. I make a statement too: Sometimes, things aren't what they seem to be.

I am granted more flexibility by this hairstyle - if I want to appear with long hair, I let it down. When I want to have short hair, I just hide the long hair.

But the problem with these short hairdos is that they have to be maintained. I have to get my short hair cut once in a while, and it'll have to be with this hairdresser because she's the only one who can do it, who's familiar with the style (we worked together on this) and my hair.

The reactions to my new cut has given me an idea of what people thought of my hair too. Most said, "Looks nice. Interesting." The lady who serves me hot chocolate at the Tim Horton's next to the library said, "I thought you cut it all off. I was thinking whether you'd gone crazy." A couple of friends said, "Oh thank God it's still there. I don't think I could handle you with short hair."

See what I mean, by hair being attached to a certain personality?

I am me, and I have long hair.

Nonetheless, I got my hair cut, and I'm inordinately pleased by it. I can still run a brush through my hair and feel the length. But I can also push my hair out of my eyes and above my forehead so I don't appear to be balding. I can tease it to appear like I have curls in front. I can play dress-up, pretend to be a boy, maybe.

And I still have long hair.

"Call To Arms" by Auguste Rodin

I'm at work and I really should be doing my readings, but I'm not feeling like applying myself to work, so I would like to talk to you, my noble audience, about something which compells emotion in me. I know there aren't a lot of you, but I'll manage.

Last year, during the second semester, I had registered myself for a TESL diploma course. This course included a practicum of several hours - now indeterminate due to memory lapses - of real TESL students, mostly from the TESL center. My students were interested in art, so I took them to the Nova Scotia Art Gallery, which was exhibiting a number of works by Auguste Rodin at the time.

You know who Auguste Rodin is, he requires no introduction. We really wanted to see The Thinker. (As it happened, the version of the Thinker that we finally saw was a foot tall and we were a little disappointed.) We also saw a different exhibition of a local Canadian artist who did oil paintings that looked so real, we thought they were photographs.

As I entered the second floor of the exhibition, I was struck by the sculpture right before the doorway - Rodin's Call to Arms. I was drawn to this one and stood there gazing at it for a good few moments. I took in the whole of the sculpture - the figure of the soldier, dying and awkwardly falling. His head bent backward, obviously slain, and falling in the midst of a battle.

Then the figure of the angel rises from behind him, her wings spread out, her fists thrust into the air. And her face was - amazing. I couldn't believe it. There was so much there. There was despair and pain, there was anger blazing through, and this was black-looking bronze. I gazed at her and I felt the hurt, and I felt the fury of her desired vengeance - I felt her call to arms.

I nearly cried looking at the sculpture, so instead I walked around it, taking in every single detail, marvelling at how much motion and emotion there was within the sculpture. It's not smooth. It doesn't have the perfection of form. The roughness is jarring. I heard the words of a poem racing through my head, too fast for me to catch. Just looking into her face made me hear the sounds of battle, a clash of swords, the groan of a dying soldier, and I heard her screaming.

I imagine that the screams of an angel are not meant to be heard by the human ears, but that they can be felt anyway. So within the battle, the angel would be screaming, and the soldiers wouldn't know where the sound is coming from, but they would know it anyway and surge on, fighting to the death.

I also imagine that the screams of an angel are not meant to exist in the first place. Usually, when I see angel sculptures, they're large and wise and beautiful and serene - they also smile if they're not simply expressionless. But she is not serene, not serious, not smiling. She is screaming. When I look at the image I feel like the screams would echo forever.

I read that she is named the Genius of War, or the Angel of War, or the Spirit of War. Sometimes she is just referred to as a "winged female figure" - supposed to represent the Liberty of France. And I look once more into the image and I can't see it. I can't see liberty, I can't see spirit, I can't see a soldier's courage and the victory on a battlefield. I don't see a rally, and I can't see a battle call.

It's all pathos. It's hurt and anger. It's a cry for vengeance. It's all innocence lost to the sight of death and dying and murder and hatred and killing. It's fraught with a kind of insanity, like a mind snapping from the pressure of so much evil things. It's an angel screaming.

It's a beautiful sculpture. I'd like to own a copy of it one day. I don't mean a poster of it either. This is one of those things which has to be seen and touched. The flat picture doesn't work. It took me forever to settle on a picture of her to use for LJ, because, well, it's not as striking.

One day, if you have the chance, go look at it. Look at the face of the dying soldier. Then look at her face. The face of an angel screaming.