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This Is Us
From Medusa to Samson: a Personal History of My Treacherous Hair
For women, what’s on our head is who we are
I regarded myself in the mirror, teeth gritted. In my right hand, I wielded a pair of scissors, their blank shininess reflecting my tormented glance. In my left hand, I held the scraps of my self-esteem. I raised the scissors to my forehead and caught my hair — a few dozen strands or so. With a simple squeeze of the handles, the withered locks, those dead parts of me, fell. I felt a surge of relief.
I kept going until I had hair in name only, a protective sheath of close-cropped strands. With the scissors under a cold stream of water, I ran my fingers through the remaining peach fuzz.
With my treacherous hair gone, I could move forward.
“When I look in the mirror, my hair feels like me, like a part of my identity.” — Elizabeth W., Oregon
As a young child, my natural blond waves perfectly complemented my gapped teeth and button nose. Everyone in my family had curly dark hair, but early on, I was an outlier.
Eventually, nature caught up, and my hair turned brown and curly. I did not take well to the transition. My beloved brush…
