Life with Long Hair

Marcus and I had always had rather longish hair, worn to collar-length in back, shorter in front. If our bangs hadn't been trimmed, they would have touched our chin.

Today, I came across a photo of the two of us playing in a park near the beach. We were about seven or eight, running about in shorts, and our hair was almost white. We were what they call in the South "tow-heads" (a term that confused me until Mum explain that "tow" was a kind of flax). And she only took us for a trim about once a year, as she fancied the look. She'd been a child of the sixties.

In our graduation picture, we're sporting what I think they called it a bi-level cut. Marcus joked that it was perfect for him, since he was bisexual.

I was not. I am gay. And when I was being bullied about being gay, Marcus outed himself as bisexual before I could tell him that what my tormentors were saying about me was true. We were sixteen.

By the time we were in high school, our hair had become a basic light blonde.

We once dyed it, just to see the effect. The Da came home to find Marcus with raven, blue-black hair, and me with a deep chestnut. He wasn't angry, but he did say that it brought out the Bengali in us. We bleached it out again to something approaching our natural color later in the summer, using lemon juice to restore our highlights.

A few months after high school, we were hit by a drunk driver. Marcus was killed, and I was pretty much out of it for a while. My hair continued to grow, of course, but I'd decided not to cut it. I'm not entirely sure of the reason. Perhaps I'd become accustomed to it.

I know that long hair can be a great shield when people stared. It helped to conceal the right half of my face, which had been badly scarred. The bones of it hadn't quite set right, which meant I later had to undergo having it re-broken in order to restore it to a semblance of itself.

And when I looked in the mirror, seeing Marcus (of course), it was easier to have the image softened by the veil of my hair. And my hair continued to grow.

I gave various reasons for not cutting it: I liked the look, it made me distinctive, it challenged conventional stereotypes of masculinity, and it was mine, dammit.

And it was a tribute to my bro.

Eleven years after the crash, I decided that since my hair was long enough, I'd donate it to Locks of Love, an organization that provides wigs for cancer patients, children, and others who have no hair. Since Locks of Love require that the hair not have been chemically treated, and be at least a nine-inch length, I qualified. I had it cut November 16, 2008: the anniversary of the crash.

I did it as a tribute to my bro.

I've realized, as time has gone by, that something that began as a defense mechanism and developed into an dearly-cherished affectation had become useful to others.

My hair is now below my collar again - almost to my shoulders in back, and (if not held back) reaches my chin in front.

I've come full circle.

Who knows, if Marcus had lived, we might have diverged in our hairstyles, as we did in our religious and spiritual lives. Mohawks, mullets, crew-cuts, buzz-cuts . . . endless possibilities.

But for now, I like being able to do pony-tails, French braids, fish-tails, Legolas braids . . . and I even braided blue ribbons into it when Brian and I hand-fasted.

It is what it is, as Life is - and so it goes on growing.