To understand my excitement, you need to know that my hair has been my archenemy since seventh grade. There was never enough of it, and what I had was wimpy. It became the root of all my problems.
If only my hair were better. As a child, I developed a theory about why my hair broke off: Billy goats appeared at night and nibbled on it. It was the only reasonable explanation. Then, after taking eighth grade Biology class, I started hating my mitochondria for delivering faulty protein packets to my fingernails and follicles.
The week of painful waiting was relieved only when the UPS man finally rang my bell and handed me the box. Within a minute, I had "Showgirl" hair. BANG! I felt an instant flash of primal power churning deep within my belly. Long and radiating, thick, flame-throwing hair was at last mine. My transformation into a Fire Goddess was complete. I named myself "Kali."
I went public with my fiery self a couple hours later. Even my body held itself differently, proud and feline. I became attuned to my every movement and the weight and feel of the hair on my back.
Crowning Glory [will make you] think about think about persona, the way we see ourselves and the ways in which others see us.
Not five minutes outside my door, four women gaped at me as I passed them by on my way to Soho. "Oh look girls, she must be somebody." They all nodded their heads and beamed at me. I rewarded them for their recognition with a slight smile. Yes, ladies, you are correct, I am. Ooh, this was fun. As I walked along people stared, pointed, and felt free to comment.
"Holy fuck, you have a lot of hair!"
"God bless that hair!"
"Aren't you hot with all that stuff hanging down your back?"
"Hey Red, wanna have my baby?"
A man in a suit actually fell to his knees before me on the sidewalk. He threw his briefcase to the side, raised his clasped hands, and entreated me, "Please take me home with you; I'll do whatever you want. Please ..."
On my way out after the lesson, a UPS man offered me the package he was delivering as a gift, two young guys fought for the honor of opening a deli door for me, and one older dude looked back at the wrong moment and ran into a newspaper stand. What the hell was going on?
Fresh perspectives and insights about anxiety and self-image that resonate!
I can't say that this has happened to me before. I mean, yes, heads have been turned in the past thanks to my Amazonian stature (I'm five foot ten) and my hardy, German-stock bone structure, but never like this.
Was it all because of my new locks? Did the sight of them alone send out a flaming, five-alarm mating call? The attention went to my head regardless of the reason, and I admit to engaging in gross narcissism. I couldn't really claim that it was "me" getting noticed though.
Was it only about my outward appearance, or did my bolstered confidence have something to do with it?
Well, the truth is, beneath the vanity and fantasy, my wig wearing had more to do with survival. I often suffered crippling panic attacks when I went out into the world, but that changed when I walked into life as Kali. I could hide behind her. If anyone rejected me it wasn't personal. And it made me feel alive.
I was aware of my folly, but I also saw it as a weird miracle. This head of hair let me be someone else. Someone stronger. It also helped me escape a hopeless stretch of depression and desperation that had left me terrified and furious.