Why I’m Nearly BALD!

***perfect for humid St. Louis summers***

NO HAIR PRODUCTS

When my hair grows out, it is huge, frizzy, curly, tangled and bouncy mess.  There are days I absolutely adore my natural curls, but there are other days where they drive me insane!  In the midst of midwestern summers, I must condition heavily and shampoo vigorously, only to spritz, spray, and scrunch just perfectly once it’s dry.  When I have a shaved head, life becomes much easier! I enter the shower, give my body and head a quick lather, leave the shower, and towel off.  My morning routine is impossibly simple. Once a week, I have to give my head a quick ten-minute buzz with the electric razor, but that’s it.   Why would I ever want to return to my hot, heavy, sweaty, frizzy, mop atop my beautiful head?

GIRLY FUN

I love curly hair, but I really love fun earrings.  And unless those poofy curls are pulled back completely, it’s fairly difficult to show off my jewelry collection.  So, without hair, I can show the world whatever earrings I wish!  Plus, my neck appears elongated and more elegant, which in turn corrects my posture all day.  The bigger the earring, the better.

Having no hair truly draws dramatic attention to my eyes.  So, I take advantage of this, and play with eye make-up just a little more than before I shaved my head.  Especially when I go out or dress-up, I add glitter and color and vivacious mascara that I would have never applied before!

Once in a blue moon, I wear a ridiculous wig.  Just for fun.  Why not, right? It’s just awkward when it falls off in the parking lot…not that it’s happened before… I swear…

SCALP MASSAGES

For whatever reason, everyone wants to touch a shaved head.  It’s something I’ll never understand.  Pregnant women must endure a similar paradox, of everyone wanting to press their grubby palm atop their bellies. I strongly dislike when strangers assume they have the right to rub my head, and say something stupid like, “ohhhhh cooooooool!!!!”  Ugh.  But, if anyone asks politely, I’ll almost always grant permission, and of course, you may rub my head and give me a mini scalp massage.  It feels fantastic. Sometimes I miss my long hair, and the creative ways I could decorate it for special occasions, but it feels even better when he rubs his hand vigorously across my scalp!  Weird, but true.

Additionally, you know those wire-y finger-like head massager thingies from Sharper Image and Sky Mall?  Well, I keep one where I practice yoga in the house, and often use it to give myself a little head rub while meditating.  It is especially effective when activating my Kundalini.

NO MORE EXPENSIVE HAIRCUTS

With a shaved head, I never have to visit a hair salon again! I cut my hair myself, in my own home.   If, per chance, I’m traveling and have forgotten my electric razor, the quick trim is no more than $10.  One day I want to walk into a traditional barber shop and ask for a “good, close shave”, just to witness their reaction…hm.

EXERCISE IS MORE ENJOYABLE

No, really.  Please listen to me.  Ladies, if you want an easier, simpler, more aerodynamic workout, shave your head! Lumpy ponytails will no longer get in the way of headstands during yoga.  A long run in the heat of summer will literally be a breeze, and your sweat will immediately evaporate off the top of your head.  Bangs will no longer fall in your face every five minutes.  Last but not least, your lap swim is much more comfortable without a clingy plastic cap (that usually fails to keep your hair dry anyways).

THE INEVITABLE TOPIC OF CANCER

When I shaved my head this time around, I did so not only for myself, but with a family member in mind.  She was about to endure chemotherapy for breast cancer and somewhat tentative of losing her hair.  After laughing about the entire situation at a bar one night, I declared to her, “If you do, I do!”  And so I did, as did she.  She has currently  kicked cancer’s ass, and is living her life vibrantly and enthusiastically.

While I did this as part of a solidarity act with chemo patients everywhere, I also want to enforce the fact that I also did this for vanity and ego, like any woman does with any hairstyle!  I have had strangers ask me “did you donate your hair to Locks of Love?”  and “is your hairstyle for someone who has cancer?”  First of all, no.  Second of all, maybe, but why is it acceptable to inquire of something so personal?  Why does our society automatically assume that a woman shaving her head is somehow linked to cancer?!?!  Yet if a man shaves his head, we think nothing of it. This double-standard drives me absolutely insane.  But what slays me is the fact that on two separate occasions within the first week of shaving my head (coincidentally at the same grocery store), a total stranger has asked me about my battle with cancer.  The first one asked me while I was collecting blueberries in my basket,
“I hear blueberries are full of antioxidants, that’s good for your healing”
To which I replied, confused, “Umm… Healing?”
“Yes, I’m assuming you’re going through chemo…”
“Because of my haircut?”
“yes…”
“well, I’m not.  I just really love blueberries.  I shave my head because I think I look good with no hair, and it feels great in this heat.  I hope you go home and feel embarassed, and know that I’ll tell this story to tons of people.  But it’s cool, no worries.” I grinned a ridiculously toothy smile inches from his face, as he scoffed and turned away.  Was I bitchy and rude?  Yes.  Will he ever make this mistake again?  Probably not.

The other incident occurred in the check-out line.  The young lady behind me asked “if I was okay”.  I said yes, and asked why.  She looked at my hair, then my stunned face, then my hair, then my stunned face, and finally replied, “oh… I thought you might have had cancer…” I only said “nope!  Just freakin’ love having short hair.  You should try it!”  By this point, we had shuffled along in line long enough to be in front of the cashier, who complemented me on how nice my hair looked.  I smiled, said thank you, and turned towards the lady behind me and smiled.  Sometimes I’m just so surprised at what strangers have the audacity to ask!

ACTIVISM

Shaving my head is a continuous form of feminist activism.  For as long as we can remember, women have been defined by their up-dos, down-dos, curls, crimps, color, part, and length of their stylish hair.  Yet for some reason, I feel extraordinarily feminine without any hair at all.  Maybe it’s because I feel that “the real me” has more of a chance to shine without my curly-cues covering half my face.  Perhaps it’s because my neck has a chance to brag about its length and slenderness, and the intimate space behind my ears is now exposed.  Or maybe, because I don an “alternative” hairstyle than many women abhor, I am paying homage to the flapper days of the 1920s; women became liberated as they chopped their hair shorter than ever before and threw off their suffocating corsets for the first time in history.   I feel sexy, feminine and beautiful because I feel exposed, real, and true.

Many people ask me why I shave my head, to which I normally respond “because I want to!”, and I realize that this is a form of activism in itself.  I am regularly promoting the idea and lifestyle of decorating oneself however they deem fit, and however they feel best expresses their individuality.  Pretty cool, no?

I work at a popular restaurant, as both a hostess and waitress.  Realizing that shaving my head might be unacceptable, I asked permission of a manager, and she saw no reason why it wouldn’t be alright. The next day, when I walked in without hair, the restaurant owner told me I could no longer be a hostess.   He essentially told me that our restaurant was located in a “conservative part of town” and that my look was not one he desired to be greeting his guests.  When I pointed out that several male employees donned the same haircut, we began to negotiate.  I tried wearing headbands, but that looked even more ridiculous!  I looked like an infant wearing a crown of ruffles!  However immediately, during both my hosting and serving shifts, customers began complementing me left and right on my haircut.  Many women customers tell me I have done something they “could never do”, with a few exceptions that have literally gone home inspired and returned the next week with ..uh…significantly shorter hair!!!  Since shaving my head, I’ve had several date requests by handsome men, and endless complements on my “look” –more than I ever had with hair.  By defying the status quo and being continually outspoken about our intentions and beliefs, the result can be truly mesmerizing and positive.  We can literally change the minds of others, and make them look at certain aspects of society with new light.  I realize that in larger coastal cities, populations are somewhat immune to anything deemed “strange” or “different” like a shaved head, but here in middle America, we have a lot of work to do, and are normally about 1-2 years behind the major culinary, music, and fashion trends of pop culture.

The more women that shave their head in the name of vanity and ego, the better!  I firmly believe that a revolution of women shaving their heads is the next level of feminist liberation.  Last century, we stripped ourselves of corsets, burned our bras, chopped off our hair into bobs and crew cuts, and shortened our hemlines from the floor to barely covering our butt cheeks.  We won voting rights, abortion rights, athletic rights, and divorce rights.  Yet in this century, we still have a lot of work to do; we must win lesbian marriage rights, win back our confidence in body image and steal it back from mainstream media, and more women must shave their heads more often.

Duhhh…I Can’t Remember Your Name…

Never trust a man.  Never ever trust a foreign attractive man that lives in a tourist town, and pretends to know less English than he actually does.  Never ever ever ever trust a Greek man who fulfills all of the above descriptions, and owns a motorbike with an extra helmet in tow. Why?  Because he might give you one of the most beautiful and unforgettable days of your life.

There are many things I’ve done overseas that are stupid.  In fact, I’m lucky that I haven’t since been held hostage, raped, or anonymously imprisoned for life.   I am also one who plays it fairly safe, at least compared to others I know.  For instance,  I hardly ever drink with people I don’t know, and will never go anywhere without telling two people where I’m headed, and roughly when to expect me again.  I’m a blue-eyed, bouncy-haired, toothy-smiled twenty-something American girl, and I know that I’m never truly “safe” if I’m alone. There are several reasons why I pushed three bunk-beds in front of an unlocking door in a twelve-person guesthouse that I had the pleasure of enjoying entirely alone.  There are also reasons why I frequently carry mace and a knife, and I should probably learn how to shoot a gun sometime soon.   However, there are also handfuls of situations in my past where I should’ve would’ve and could’ve, but simply chose to follow my heart over potential dangers.

I arrived on Crete on a cloudy day.   Storms were rolling in from the sea and not one storefront, restaurant, or cigarette stand was open for business.  I found a hostel, dropped my bags, and threw on a raincoat to witness the growing waves along the beach.  Winds came and winds went, only accompanied by a few tolerable drizzles, and   I shrugged my shoulders wondering what the hell to do with myself.  Halfway back to the hostel, a beautiful Greek man approached me and asked me (in Greek) where I lived.  I told him I didn’t speak Greek, and he apologized, and then asked me in English why I was wandering down by the beach in such bad weather.  I responded with “I dunno, it’s nice, I love a good storm I guess”.

From then on, this man (who epitomized every woman’s dream of a foreign love affair) and I toured the entire island of Crete over a handful of breathtaking days. He was a math and English teacher at the local school, his students were on Easter break, and he had a few days to spare.  I insisted on staying at my hostel three nights out of four, which I was fairly proud of, but other than that, we spent every minute together!

The first day, Man and I completed a walking tour of his town, saw the school where he taught, a couple gardens, a couple nice sitting spots for espressos.  He kept using my name in conversation, but I had forgotten his, and it was too late to ask again–woops! Oh well, I snuggled into my bottom bunk that night giddy for tomorrow.

The second day, he greeted me at sunrise with flowers and a picnic breakfast.  After we had finished eating on the beach, I allowed him to whisk me away on a motorbike ride through the island.  No, really!  We stopped at an old church and accidentally got locked inside, which just forced me to fall into his juicy Greek arms for a few minutes.  An old janitor eventually came and unlocked the door, and gasped at my messy hair and his unbuttoned shirt, only to mutter something in Greek I’ll never understand.  Then, ravished with excitement, Man and I hopped aboard his motorbike and traveled through olive orchards and vineyards that I would have never seen otherwise. He knew almost every farmer, and each of them offered tastes of the freshest picks!

We continued to buzz along the roads, some along cliffs that I never want to experience by motorbike again!  I would have rather been dangling on those ridges by a rope than whizzing along them at 45 MPH.   Anyways, he deemed the next stop be my choice.  I waited until we arrived at a narrow country road, that seemed to wind into infinitely vibrant green hills and rocky limestone mountains.  We pulled over, and wandered up and down the hillsides until we met some goats, and fed them some grass and breadcrumbs.

As we meandered back to the motorbike, I realized something:  I was in the middle of the most beautiful coastal valley, on a beautiful sunny afternoon, with a most beautiful man.  What to do?  Well, I found the perfect beautiful shady spot and we had a beautifully wild session in the grass.  And afterwards, as we lay naked and glowing in the sun, he asked me a terrible question,
“I love that you pick up on  Greek language very quickly, Chelsea.  You even said my name just like the Greeks do.  Say it again?”
“Um… “ I hoped this pause was one that seemed much longer than it really was.
“Oh a-my god, my-a beautiful Chelsea, do you not remember your lover’s name?”
“UM!!! Kiss me!”
“No no no!  You cannot remember my name!  We have spent almost three entire days together!  At least try!” He was laughing, but in a sort of unsettling manner.

He began to gather my clothes for me.  Oh shit, I thought.  I fucked up.  Big time. He’s going to leave me here at the base of this valley, and I’m going to have to hitchhike four hours west back to my backpack at the hostel.  I silently prayed oh god, I know this isn’t what people normally pray about, but please help me remember this man’s name. And I swear that at that very moment, it came to me!  I remembered his name.  Well, almost,

“Spelios….?…”
“Ah, you gave me a fright!  So close, but more of a tuh sound than a puh sound.  Stelios.  Stelios.  Stelios!”  He laughed and kissed me on the cheek, and walked me over to the motorbike.  That was scarier than zipping along those rocky cliffs above the ocean!  More embarassing than being discovered half-naked by an old man in a foreign church!  More mortifying than getting my period in white shorts during 6th grade gym class— a situation awkward for everyone involved…um, never mind.

We continued our road-trip along the coast until we came to a sort of canyon, surrounded by sandstone formations and grandiose mangrove plants I’d never seen before.  Of course we had to reward ourselves with beach lovin’ once we successfully arrived at the bottom.  He pulled some wine from his bag, and we fell asleep there that night, drunk on each other.

At sunrise, we slowly dragged ourselves to the motorbike and chugged along the coast, back to where we started our little journey.  We spent a couple more days just sipping espresso and wandering Crete, and on our final day together, he even brought me over to his family Easter dinner.  He was shocked that I had nowhere to go on Easter, and his  family was more than welcoming!  It was not only an evening with new friends, but insight into Greek culture that I could have never imagined.   As they left for (yet another) church service, I felt it was my time to leave, for I have no place in any Catholic church.   They understood, and Stelios’ mother walked me to my hostel, just down the road.  And in the peaceful silence of Easter night, the old woman (classically Mediterranean in every appearance) sat with me and told me that she’d never seen her son so happy to have a guest over to dinner!  She then told me she wished I was Greek and Catholic so that I could marry him!  We giggled, said goodnight, and I gave her my eternal thanks.

The next morning, as I was leaving my hostel to go to the next island destination, I saw Stelios sitting there with his motorbike, with another flower for me in hand.  He offered one more trip, for another three days, to another side of Crete I’d never seen.  To his surprise, I politely declined.  I had to remember that I was traveling through Greece for me, and not for anyone else; I knew that if I spent any more time with him, I’d be doomed to stay in Greece the entire summer!  My instincts told me that enough was enough, and it was time to keep going.

I learned a lot from spending time with Stelios and his family.  I learned the beauty of sharing moments with a new friends, what to feed wild goats, and how to ask for olives from a Greek farmer.   But mostly, I’m just glad I remembered his name.