i cut my hair. inept and small, the dull blades rip through its length with untold savagery and brutality.
slices of yellow and inky black tresses fall to the floor, landing in concentric patterns of chaos and curl.
the sound of nail scissors, the most inapproriate tool, chewing through my hair is curiously satisfying. like grinding teeth.
i remember, as a child, cutting my own hair with pinking shears – thinking it would make it zig-zaggy and pretty. of course, the end result was fucking horrible and my mother had to salvage what was left so that i still looked like a human girl child.
but i love to cut my own hair. it’s cathartic. cleansing. grounding.
it’s only hair though, isn’t it?
of course not.
it’s more than that for women. for girls. it’s everything.
i am no longer four years old. so why do i do this to myself?
i really should have ‘outgrown’ this phase by now; this phase, this compulsion, this fascination with cutting my own hair. but i can’t. it’s inexplicable and gives me such intrinsic satisfaction.
little fringe and long hair. years later, i am back with the same hair as that of the four year old Kathryn.
only its colour has changed. many, many times.
i’m such a whore with my hair.
let it grow. grow up.
ah… but it is only hair, right?
(c) Kat McDonald 2017
– anyone else out there cut their own hair and why?