Order

I got my first haircut last week.  It was my first haircut since I was bald last spring.  Now I have a trendy hair-do instead of a dandelion puff.  

(rockin' the new haircut at the apple orchard)

I waited and waited for this haircut, despite the developing mullet, because I was so afraid that the stylist would cut off too much.  Indeed, she shaved my neck down to bald, and probably cut half of the length in many strategic places.  Now it resembles my June hair-do, with some parts a bit longer.  And next time some more parts will be longer.  And the next time, longer.  Until...

(rockin' some long hair at the same orchard last year)

It was strange to part with this hair that I have cultivated since being bald; the lengths of hair that were cut were with me all through chemotherapy.  The longest strands were the ones that never fell out.  I didn't exactly feel sentimental about this hair (it was pretty damaged, and chemotherapy does not conjure fond memories), but I felt like I should have said a few words to let it know that I appreciated it.  Those strands fought hard for their place on my head, and they tried to keep me warm when no other strands would.

Another feeling that led to the disquietude of the haircut is that I yearn for longer hair.  I don't look like myself with short hair.  I can't explain it, but there is a disjunct between how I feel and how I look.  When I think of myself, I still think of a girl who should wear a ponytail from time to time.  My ponytail ghost is long gone (I had one for several months), but I still miss the feeling of hair brushing on my neck.  Also, it is no minor variable that the short hair makes me look like my brother.  Perhaps if I didn't look exactly like a confirmed dude, I'd be more comfortable with short hair.  

This all got me to thinking about why I was cutting my hair.  If I'm so anxious for it to get long again, why would I cut it?  For beauty?  That doesn't seem like something I'd do off-hand.  For order is more like it.  I wanted to bring order to the disorder, or as my husband likes to put it, look like I have a PhD.

But sometimes, isn't order beautiful?  NPR did a story about a Swiss artist named Ursus Wehrli who photographs jumbled up things

and then organizes them.

My hair is no work of Wehrli (although I'd like do see what he'd do with it!), but his way of organizing things really is beautiful.  The other thing that struck me about his work is how beautiful the chaos is before he organizes it.  So I will proceed in a brief state of ordered hair, until my next haircut in six months saves me either from the brink of hair pandemonium or a mullet, whichever is worse.  And I'll be beautiful the entire time.