Hair-isistable.

Are you sure you want to do this?

Massive shears but a few inches away from my head, my hairdresser looked at me in the mirror, poised and ready to chop chop chop.

Heart pounding, images passing through my head about what I might look like in just a few minutes, I hesitated. Comments from friends and strangers alike echoed through my head about “no don’t cut your hair!”, my long luscious locks. This was the same hair that had become synonymous with my identity, part of what made me me.

Speaking of me, what does make me me?

Is it something as artificial as my hair, or is it more my confidence in how I wear it?

What I was about to do had nothing to do with other people, and I certainly shouldn’t have let what they say and what they think influence what I do with my body and its adornment, certainly when it comes to hair (WHICH EVENTUALLY GROWS BACK).

No. This was something I wanted to do, and it’s been something I’ve wanted to do for awhile now.

A change of scenery, a weight lifted, a hairstyle making an homage to the re-entry into the ‘20’s, a breath of fresh “hair.” Yes, I was sure I wanted to do this.

Because you see, aside from all the benefits I would feel from a sudden change in style, I was also doing it for someone else.

I don’t know them, I will likely never know them, but I’m hoping that someday someone who actually needs my hair will have it. I’ve donated to Locks of Love before, (this would be my third time), and it was one of the main instigators in my desire for change. It’s the season of giving and if someone else can benefit from my mane (and not complain about it 80% of the time like I do), then it’s well worth it.

As I sat in the hairdresser’s chair, a nervous smile spread across my face and I finally gave her the go ahead.

Hair parted into two thick ponytails, I sat in anticipation as the scissors made their way across my hair that had been with me for so long. Hair that I had wrapped in bun after bun in frustration, hair that my mom had so lovingly brushed for me when I was younger, and hair that I relished when I took off my bra at the end of the day, beautiful mermaid hair covering up my chest.

And in under 2 minutes, it was all gone, off to someone who undoubtedly needs it more than I.

A physical weight has been lifted from my shoulders since then and as cheesy as it is to admit, I feel younger, lighter, and free. While I know having short hair again will take some getting used to, I do find the new look to be most…

hair-isistable.

New Year.

I fell asleep in the new year as the big spoon.

After an evening spent in the company of the finest folks, at the best establishment, with food and drink a-flowing like that of a speakeasy, I went home tipsy tomato and wrapped my big ole body of mine around my cat, Guji.

Did I have you fooled?

Let’s go back to New Year’s Eve though, which may have well been one of the most memorable celebrations I’ve ever had.

New Year’s Eve isn’t typically one of my favorite holidays. Historcally, they’ve been filled with drunk people, obnoxious fireworks in the middle of the night, and I have one horrible memory of falling asleep in the hot tub as my sister and boyfriend made out and my old friend FaceTimed her boyfriend, leaving me sad and rejected.

Like I said, not my favorite holiday, and you can see why. Sure, it used to be a real exciting event as a kid, getting to stay up all the way to midnight, but as you get older, bedtimes become earlier (at least for me), and it takes all of my energy to even stay awake and “ring in the new year.”

But not this year.

This year is different. It’s the end of one decade and the start of another. And we’re ringing in the ‘20’s, and you know I can’t resist me some prohibition style gala celebration.

Anyhoo, my New Year’s Eve was spent holed up in Addie Camp. A blizzard, making its way down from Homer, was raging by the time our doors opened and there was an eerie quietness outside, quite the opposite of the hubbub going on indoors.

To my left, a 5 piece band played swing music. Upstairs, there was a dance floor, which begged the company of those dancing queens (and kings). In front of me, the kitchen cooked, sending out dish after dish of delicious courses, paired expertly with wine. In the corner, a photo booth waited patiently for models, capturing their joy with a single flash. Around me were a flutter of persons from the past: flapper dresses, head pieces, striped suits, and boas.

I was sent off early; unfortunately, the majority of the community chose to stay at home and forego gay celebration, so the number of patrons were few.

But they were mighty.

Cozied up against the storm, I spent hours enjoying myself. I danced the night away, I ate and drank to my heart’s content (full? have another glass of bubbly. Not full? have another glass of bubbly), I smiled and I laughed and there was no crew, and no place I would have chosen in the world over this one to ring in the New Year.

It was that memorable.

As the countdown commenced, hosted by my very tipsy dad, I looked around at all of these people, most I knew, some I didn’t, and I felt so proud to be in the company of these fine folks celebrating such a monuments occasion.

I ended one year happy, and started the other feeling just the same.

Let 2020 begin.

Cheers!