Sunday, February 15, 2015

8 things I learned when I shaved my head

Most people in my life remember me as the redheaded girl with really long hair. That makes sense, because for twenty-three years I was that girl. Please see exhibit A.
Exhibit A

People who have met me within the past year have a hard time finding me in this picture. Pro tip, I'm the redhead.
The non-redheads are my gorgeous sisters.

People ask, awww Liza! Why did you cut your hair? Answer, because those above pictures took a lot of effort, and I didn't usually look like that. Oftentimes, my hair looked like this.

It required a lot of maintenance to not look like a crazy person.

Then one day I got tired of it. We could say lazy here, but I prefer the term "efficient." Basically, I saw another girl with a shaved head and hip glasses like mine and I thought it was a pretty sharp look (is that how trends start?), and a really good way to save time every day. My brother Greg told me not to do it, I would look like an angry feminist. That's okay, sometimes I am a little anyway so I decided I could live with that. That same week I walked into a hair salon on Grand River, and walked out a completely different person.

I would be lying if I said I regretted my decision, I don't. I learned so much. And you can never replace the initial shocked reaction of everyone I knew when they saw it. How many times can you text your best friend, "hey, I just shaved off all my hair"? Not many, is the answer you were looking for.

The things I learned:

1. I have a really round head



The most nervous thought going through my mind in the salon chair, looking in the mirror with the black salon cape wrapped around me, was that I might have a funny-shaped head. It was a serious risk that you can't know until it's too late to go back. It would be much harder to justify this decision if I had a bumpy head. But I got lucky, and many compliments on the beautiful shape of my skull.


2. It's really cold with no hair
A note of advice to anyone considering shaving their head: don't do it in winter. I had no idea how much of an insulator hair was until I didn't have any in Michigan's February. Hats and scarves became my best friend, even indoors.


3. The convenience is unparalleled
If nothing else, I always credit my good grades during my last semester to being bald. This is because I saved so much time in brushing, washing, drying, and styling every day. The hair part of my daily routine literally vanished. I simply couldn't have a bad hair day. Maybe I never had a good hair day, but at least I couldn't have a bad hair day. Imagine girls, that all you have to do to your hair every day is wash it with a dime sized drop of shampoo and run a towel over it, mostly out of habit because it dries almost instantly on its own. Done. But like, actually done. And working out without that obnoxious ponytail in the way is incredible. The feeling of freedom while running, that alone was worth it. Sometimes I just want boys to shut up about how beautiful long hair is, because they really got the better end of the deal with this social norm in terms of convenience and efficiency.


4. What you look like can really affect your perception of how others perceive you
When I chose to shave my head for apparently no reason at all, I know people questioned my sexual orientation. This didn't bother me in an offensive way. I don't think placing a sexual orientation on someone should ever be an insult, and was not offended if someone thought I liked girls. But I still found myself self-conscious that maybe girls would think I was hitting on them when I wasn't, or that boys would think I wasn't interested when I was. There was just no getting around that my lack of hair was the most notable physical attribute of my body, I know people noticed. So I would add strange comments into conversations that I didn't need to, like "so that really hot guy in my class today..." or "oh yeah, my last boyfriend used to say that too." This was simply to give signals that I probably didn't need to give, based off of what I thought people thought of me. While harmless (and somewhat humorous) in my case, as I chose to shave my head and wasn't generally bothered by any stereotypes people might place on me, it made me think about how deep a role physical appearances play in how we interact with each other.
For example, I wondered what kind of behavior black men do to try to signal that they are not scary thugs to people they meet on the street. And then I got angry that they should even have to try to show that, because our society shouldn't assume that information before getting to know someone, just based off of a physical characteristic that they didn't choose. Or what do cops do to show that they are just normal people with normal lives, whose job happens to be a commitment to public service. Or what do Arabs living in the states do to not be labeled as a terrorist. When there is such a strong stereotype placed on a specific characteristic, anyone carrying that characteristic cannot escape it. It can affects their lives, thoughts, and actions, even if they do not match the stereotype at all, simply because they think people might be stereotyping them.
Humans are visual, so while we say we shouldn't judge a book by its cover, we all do to some extent. This experience definitely made me realize how much it can affect people's mentality when they are on the receiving end.


5. The good people in your life really love you for who you are, not what you look like
I know it's a common mantra that we push in society that beauty comes from within, it's what's on the inside, not the outside that counts, etc. But honestly, in our beauty-based society it is really hard to make yourself believe that all the time. But after I shaved my head, I found I didn't lose any friends. And if I did, they must not have been that good of friends anyway, because I didn't notice. My family didn't disown me, maybe they didn't like it but I was still invited to Easter. I didn't lose my job, I didn't get kicked out of yoga class, I still led song service at church. I was my own living proof that looks didn't matter, my life went on. That was a really good lesson for me to learn. There were some times that I looked really funny. The bowling pin stage. The Chia pet stage. The hedgehog stage. The Justin Bieber stage. The second Justin Bieber stage. The pixie-cut-that-was-too-short-to-really-be-a-pixie-cut-stage. I went through all of them, and there was nothing I could do about it. If I looked in the mirror and wasn't crazy about what I saw, I had to toughen up, deal with it, and still go outside, because hair doesn't grow back in a day. It's really important to remember that the important people in your life will still love you, and it's really important to remember to love yourself, because looks are not that big of a deal.


6. Moms do not appreciate you using their words against them
My mother was less than pleased with my radical decision, and wasn't afraid to tell me so. I tried to reason with her, reminding her how she always used to threaten to shave my hair off if I didn't brush it. "Mom," I said, "I didn't want to brush it anymore. I'm just being responsible." She didn't think it was funny. Now I think she is happier that my hair is long enough to be "in my face," something else she used to always scold me about, because that at least means I have hair. But I know she still loved me, and hair does grow back. It's not like I got something permanent like a tattoo, at least not yet.


7. Graduation caps, and other hats, fit way better
Maybe the other girls crossing the stage had thick, bouncing curls under their graduation caps, but they also had a head full of bobby pins trying to make that "one-size-fits-all" monster stay off the floor, or at least on straight. Win for the baldie.


8. Hair grows back, but at its own pace
Overall, I am really glad I took the leap; it was a nice twist to my roaring twenties. Yes, there are times when I wish it would hurry up and grow. But it doesn't work like that, and it's fun (and sometimes awkward) seeing all the different stages. Like the most recent "Velmster" stage, as I like to call it. At least the Justin Bieber stage is over.

Wednesday, February 4, 2015

Disenchantment

   It's gone. Over with. Khalas. The initial awe and wonder and enthrallment that comes with being in a new place has worn off. Now it's just life. Life that I have to get up, face, push through, deal with, and come back home to every day.
   Cairo. What happened between you and me?
   I know I should be inspired by all of the magic of the city around me, but instead I just want to hide in my bed and ignore my alarm going off at 6:30. Again. No no no! La' la' la' that is so rude, alarm. I'm not ready to face the city.
   Walking.
   When I first came to Egypt, everything was new. Everything was fascinating. Every mundane, ordinary life instance I came across was met with awe and every annoying, frustrating thing was given a free pass because it's a new culture and it's exciting.
   Now the cockroach I almost stepped on is just like, ugh, please don't; and the dead cat in the ditch that's been there for three days just stinks. Can somebody move the dead cat?
   Walking.
   Walking through the market that is on the street between mine and the metro. Tables with sunglasses, batteries, pens, and plastic bracelets. Fresh fish laying on ice. Brightly colored leggings and bras. Clothes hanging from lines overhead. Piles of bananas. Piles of cabbages. Piles of tomatoes. Spices packaged in twisted clear plastic bags. Tables of pots and pans. Salesmen in dirty galabayas. Veiled women shifting through more veils and scarves for sale on a table, bright colors, pretty patterns. Newspapers spread out on cardboard on the ground, red headlines in Arabic shouting about terrorism in the Sinai. Two teenage girls sit at a table in the sun, giggling together, one is flipping an empty plastic bottle around in her hand. An old woman sells bags of cut vegetables.
   It's a traveler's paradise. Every item for sale; every expression on the faces of the locals; every interaction; every piece of garbage on the ground and every beam of sunshine is a Kodak moment, just waiting to be taken, Facebooked, instagrammed, framed and put on display in someone's living room in Massachusetts. But these are just my neighbors. And they are just in the way between me and the stairs to the metro. Push, shove, push, hustle. Get out of the way. Magic gone. So over the smell of fish.
   Walking.
   Out of the market, into the other street. Keep my bag on the shoulder away from the street so cyclists can't snatch it. Don't make eye contact with anyone I don't need to, it's easier to avoid unwanted interactions. Ignore taxis. Look like I know where I'm going. I know everything I need to know here and yet know nothing at the same time.
   In the streets there are cars double parked. Triple parked. I don't know how this country functions. What happens when the person who parked first has to leave? It stresses me out. Everything stresses me out. I feel like the person who parked first, trapped and helpless.
   This is normal. I've been here for four months, gone from home for seven. This is a normal stage of cultural adjustment. The push back. The uncomfortable mix of being familiar and overwhelmed, success mixed with failure, and by knowing how things work more you realize you know less of how things will work in the future and how uncertain they are.
   But just because it's normal doesn't mean it isn't hard. I get stressed over the stupidest things. Like concepts of meal times. This should not be the cultural difference that gets to me, it's harmless. Who cares if Egyptians like to eat breakfast at ten, lunch at four, and dinner at ten. They can eat when they want, that's fine. But when somebody asks me at five pm if I have had lunch yet, I get stressed just thinking about how awful my day would be if I hadn't eaten lunch yet. How do people function like that?
   Walking.
   In the traffic, there's two men pushing a red car that stalled out. There's a little school girl in the passenger front seat, glasses, backpack, with a look on her face, "what is my life right now?" Seriously girl, what are our lives right now?
   It's hard to accept that no matter how long I live here, how many times I walk these streets, catch the buses, ride the metro, and buy oranges, I will never stop hearing "welcome in Egypt." I can't fit in. And it gets old.
   But no matter how tempting it is to dream of home, and imagine going back to where I came from, I know it wouldn't make it better. If I could teleport myself there right this second, I wouldn't fit in all over again, but in a different way. I would try to tell people mish mushkila, wa7eshteenee, saba7 el fol, and no one would understand. What would I do when I craved hawawshi and needed to chill with the gang at our favorite cafe, drinking tea and shisha. Shai koshari and ma3sal to be specific.
   So I'm here, and I need to push through this tough phase of cultural adjustment. It's hard now, and there will always be a level of difficulty, simply because I chose to live in Cairo. But I want to be here, I know deep down I want to be here.
   Walking.
   I turn a corner. The sun is shining on the pavement, and the sidewalk glares light and casts shadows around the skinny trees planted in a line. I smell that smell of parking lot, exactly like walking out of Kalkaska's Northland in the summertime with a bag of groceries, on the way home from the lake. A wave of... relief? Comfort? Familiarity?
   I don't know. I don't know why that makes me feel better. But this tough phase of adjustment, this too shall pass.