March 22 2007

Text By Meera Sethi

The hair on our heads may be made out of dead cells, but that doesn't stop it from being intimately connected to every part of our lives. We spend years trying to grow it, agonize over losing it, and tie our senses of identity, gender and sexuality to its fine, threadlike strands. When we desire love and respect, we pass long hours making sure not a hair is out of place. When we want to transform ourselves, we sit down in a swiveling chair and ask, full of hope, "Can you make my hair look like hers?"

When someone we trust runs their hands over our hair, the gesture is so warm and protective it carries a deep, unspoken promise: "I won't let anyone harm a hair on your head." When someone we fear passes near, it makes our hair stand on end, no matter how much we try not to turn a hair. When someone we can't stand won't leave us alone, we just want to wash them out of our hair (or tear it out)! Our very histories are bound up in our hair—why else would we cut it all off when we want to make a fresh start?

Sometimes, though, if we are young enough or wild enough or brave enough, we can let our hair down and just be ourselves: calm, beautiful, free—and tinglingly alive from the tips of our toes to the ends of our hair.