My final haircut was a euphoric moment. I was liberated, a reverse-Samson. Then I got cold and put a beanie on
When I was a toddler, family and strangers alike would fawn over my crown of golden locks. I was often mistaken for a little girl.
Then as I grew up, my parents – to save money – honed their craft as amateur hairdressers, with themselves, my two older brothers and I their sole clientele. They only took walk-ins, the small talk was awkward and intrusive, the reviews average at best. After each haircut there was always a nervous dash to the bathroom mirror to survey the damage. I often finished the job, trimming stray hairs around my ears with a pair of nail scissors.
I didn’t visit a proper hairdresser until I was in my late teens. The first one I saw was my mother’s, an intimidatingly attractive and extroverted woman who described my hair to me and my mother as “pubey”.
To be truthful, I never had a chance. I was locked in a futile battle against my genes. While my father still has his hair, it’s thin on top. My eldest brother went bald at 22. I watched him for years as he tried different shampoos, supplements and medications. All in vain.
