I sat on
a chair in the middle of the living room as
my husband cut off all my hair. If he was nervous, he didn't let on. Maybe
there was a part of him that hoped I might back out at the last moment. After
all, he loved my long auburn hair and cutting all of it was quite
drastic.
But this was at the height of the
pandemic and my need to reach out and connect with my fellow human beings had
reached its peak. Perhaps it was an unusual way to connect, but I found a
charitable organization that provides hairpieces for children who have suffered
hair loss as a result of medical conditions such as alopecia and cancer and
after some soul-searching, I decided to donate every last inch of my
hair.
Still, despite any reservations he
might have had, my husband divided my hair into four long ponytails before
cutting them off and buzzing me down to mere fuzz. We took turns running our
palms over the soft bristles on top of my head, which made us both laugh with
delight.
Perhaps it was seeing my hair laid
out on the coffee table — such an intimate part of me suddenly turned into an
inanimate object — or my reflection in the mirror, which startled me for the
first few days, that made me consider how much of my identity is entangled in
my hair.
When I was 10, my
mother started using henna on my hair. I'm not sure where she got the idea, but
she believed it would help strengthen my hair and give it a beautiful coppery
lustre. I loved the colour, but what I loved the most were my mother's warm hands
massaging my scalp as she applied the henna. Later, I'd sit in the bathtub as
she gently rinsed it out, all the while oohing and aahing at the beautiful
colour.
At 16, the war in my
country, Bosnia, broke my family apart. I escaped to the United States and
found refuge with a host family in Ohio. In a new country and culture, learning
a new language, my young identity flexed and stretched as I tried to fit in, but
I remained my mother's daughter.
Thousands of miles away from her, I
continued the tradition of applying henna as a way to preserve our bond. The
ritual was never the same without her, but it also never failed to nourish me
deeper than the roots of my hair.
The war ended in 1996
and I started visiting Bosnia every few years to reunite with my family, but by
then it was clear to me that I would never feel safe in my home
country after living through almost four years of siege. Instead, I
forged my own path and identity on another continent.
I continued using henna throughout
high school and university, and even after I moved to Canada in 2002. The
process of applying henna brought on its own kind of hilarity, like the time my
father-in-law walked into the kitchen just as I was stirring olive oil into the
glossy henna mixture and excitedly proclaimed, "Oh good, we are having
brownies."
In 2012, my mother died unexpectedly
at the age of 65. A few months after her death, I was stumbling from grief as
if I were standing in the shallows of a raging ocean getting battered by wave
after wave. I desperately needed some self-care, so I booked a facial.
At the end of the
treatment, as I lay on my back with the esthetician standing over me, she
offered a relaxing scalp massage. I nodded with gratitude. As soon as her warm
hands sank into the bundle of my long auburn hair, a tide of tears spilled onto
my cheeks and into my hair.
"My mom died," I
said.
For several minutes, she cooed words
of comfort and cradled my head as I wept. Then she bent over me and kissed my
forehead.
My hair still held my mother's touch, but also my heartbreak.
That hair had seen me through so many of my life's stages: building a new life
in Canada, getting married, publishing a book, grieving my mother and grappling
with mental health. After reading about hair donation and learning what a
difference hairpieces make for children struggling with hair loss, I felt that
my hair could now serve someone beyond myself. This gave me a sense of peace
and purpose.
A day after getting
my buzz cut, as I went out for my usual morning walk, I wondered what kind of
reception I would receive from neighbours and strangers on the street. We make
such snap judgements about each other's appearance and going from very long to
a buzz cut was a drastic change.
However, as I laced up my running
shoes, I felt no apprehension, only excitement. I loved the warmth I felt on my
fuzzy scalp. I smiled at the curious glances and double takes from a few
passersby who had seen me previously on my morning stroll. Some smiled back and
said, "Cool look!" while others stopped to ask what prompted the
change.
I also quietly
wondered what my mother would have thought of my bold new look. She had pretty
short hair in her later years, although never quite so short. In her absence,
and considering what a giving person she was, I decided she would have been
supportive of my decision — proud even.
A few days later, I carefully packed
up the ponytails and sent them off with a silent prayer that they might bring
some comfort to a child in need. It turns out that giving away my hair
empowered me and strengthened my resolve to be a person who values connection
and kindness above all else.
Now when I look in the mirror and see
a blond pixie, I find comfort in noticing that the older I get, the more my
mother's face floats up to the surface. And when I look at a friend or a
stranger — whether their hair is long or short, coloured or grey — I can see
past the surface and recognize someone not too different from myself.
 |
| Nadja with her mother |
Nadja Halilbegovich is an award-winning
author, public speaker and peace advocate living in Canada. She is a survivor
of the Bosnian War and the siege of her hometown of Sarajevo. Her book My Childhood Under Fire: A Sarajevo Diary was published in 2006. (See here.) Visit Nadja's website here.
"I never realized how much of my identity I
carried in my hair — until I gave it all away" was originally published as a first person piece on the CBC (here).
For information on submitting a First Person piece to the CBC, see
here.
The Globe and Mail also wants your First Person essays, see here.
See Brian Henry’s
upcoming one-day workshops, weekly writing classes, and weekend retreats here.
Note: You can now get new postings on Quick Brown Fox delivered straight to your Inbox as I publish
them. Go to Quick Brown Fox on Substack, click on any posting, and you'll find the Subscribe button down at the bottom. See here: https://brian999.substack.com/
