"A woman who cuts her hair is about to change her life." -CoCo Chanel
"So which ones of these are real injuries?" One dad asked. I looked at him with those wide eyes that said, "You're not very smart for an adult."
"They all are." He did one of those "Kids these days" head-shakes then surrendered.
What he didn't know, and what I was not eloquent enough to explain, was that technically, each of my Band-Aids did represent an injury. Whenever I was sad -- just plain pouty -- I put on a Band-Aid. Call my crazy, but it always helped. It was as if the vibrancy of the Band-Aid designs entered through my skin and permeated through my body.
Three Fridays ago, I, a young adult, had a pouty day. It started as the post-holiday slump, then transitioned into an empty feeling of days passing with nothing to look forward to, and finally spiraled into the kind-of-cliche-but-unavoidable questions about where I'm trying to go in life. If you've never had one of these, you should get yourself checked because you may not be human.
Whenever this happens to me (which, for the worried therapists out there, isn't that often), I typically jot down a couple goals on paper, be it a career goal, a personal project, or a "life goal" (yeah, I don't really know what that is either). Some people argue that when you write something down, your brain perceives completion, meaning that you may not actually act. In my case, the controversy is irrelevant. The things on my list were so grand that neither I, nor anyone else, can realistically achieve them any time soon.
Needless to say, on the particular Friday in question, my list was a waste of paper and ink. We were not even three weeks into the New Year, and I already needed a do-over. As the realization and implications began to set on my shoulders like heavy San Francisco fog, I snapped. It was an animalistic, youthful snap.
Within twenty-four hours, I was sitting in front of a hair-dresser.
"Cut a lot of it. Till my shoulders." The tone was ruthless.
I have always had long hair. When I was younger, I let it fall in front of my face during piano recitals so I wouldn't have to see my audience staring at me. When I was a bit older, a boy told me that he liked my long hair and that I should never cut it. When I was older still, the length made it convenient for me to crumple everything into a high bun and neglect it for the rest of the day (I know, that last part makes me sound like I'm eighty).
"I'm so into that style right now," the stylist responded. "It's going to be up here," she said pressing my shoulder. My hair fell several inches below her finger.
"Yes. Let's do it before I freak out," I said taking off my glasses.
I couldn't really see what was going on. Like a child relying on a parent to fix things, I left it all to the lady cutting my hair.
"All done."
Glasses on.
"What do you think?"
Whoa. I look so...different.
"I love it."
Good different, I think?
"It really suits you."
"You know what? Me too," I finally responded.
It's the "new me" that I needed!
Somewhere, buried in the pile of my hair on the ground, was my pout.
Since that day, in the last three weeks, I have met with small victories or joys in all aspects of my life -- recreationally, artistically, socially, and professionally. In some ways, it has felt like an out-of-body experience where my drab long-haired self is watching this "new me" defeat what long-haired me was incapable of defeating.
My haircut was a band-aid fix.
It didn't have any magical powers (I'm 95% sure). It was a superficial self-"improvement." But somewhere in its primitive simplicity was its power to renew my energy and transform my outlook. While my list of grand plans only intimidated me into inaction, the easily-actionable decision to chop off my hair (and very visible proof of having taken action) empowered me.
In this world of notable feats everywhere -- in science, in technology, in art -- it can be debilitating for an ambitious individual to question his or her path. Small hurdles look like miserable failures. The pouty day is the end of the world. It can feel naive and childish not to counter the pout by immediately picking up a new hobby and Googling how to become a pro, stat. But that path is a hairy one. The one that, more often than not, leaves you behind your starting point. Know that there is nothing wrong with the metaphoric tantrum.
Forget the BHAG. Instead, treat your pout with something just as madly childish. Your frantic impulsiveness will remind you of the one childhood mentality we should never outgrow: When you believe in yourself, you can do anything.
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