I must say I don't entirely dislike being called 'Foxy D', 'GI Jane' or 'Mama Africa' on account of the new roots sprouting on my shaven head. Nor do I mind being described as 'radical', 'dramatic' and 'striking'. In fact, my work friends have joined me in adding to the list of names I laughingly started when I realized more 'accolades' would be a-coming as more people saw the new look. There has since been 'very Rihanna', 'doing a Grace Jones' and 'wow, look at those lips!' Hmm...
To be fair, before the chop, I'd sported long, bum-grazing braids. So I can see where this is considered something of a jump.
Of course I've toyed with the idea of cutting my hair before, most memorably last May when my usually benign dad - because what he rendered on my head could only be considered 'malicious', though he vehemently denies this - gave me what I'll call an interesting haircut. Hysterical screams, followed by more hysterical laughter could be heard from the bathroom, amidst cries of, 'OH MY GOD, WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!' I'd leaned forward and squinted hard at the mirror in the vain hope that what I was seeing was a clever trick of the eye. But trompe de l'oeil, while a great feature in art, is simply non-existent when you will it to be in cold reality. Or more specifically, when the scraggly bits starring back at you testify soundly of good hair gone bad.
Suffice it to say that's the last time I'll ever willingly hand a pair of scissors to my bespectacled old man.
On the barber's seat last week, I found I was the only female getting a haircut. Sam, the barber who has for the past year and half been giving regular shape to my perm cut, was instead charged with chopping the lot off.
Funnily enough, what has taken some getting used to hasn't been people's surprise and pleasure - though I am reveling in both - BUT reacquainting myself with the wide expanse of skin that is my forehead.
Say hello again, world.