Helen Huynh
On a Wednesday, an hour after the Declan McKenna concert at Toads, I gave my boyfriend a haircut. Declan McKenna had good hair.
The trim was premeditated. This story doesn’t end in heartbreak. He’d asked me a few days previously if I knew how to cut hair — I don’t — so of course said yes. I’ve cut my own bangs for over a year, but a snip here and there barely qualifies as a haircut. While waiting for a friend outside of the Trumbull dining hall, I watched a 15 minute Youtube video detailing how to cut men’s hair. It was narrated by an Irish man whose kind voice and lilting accent I trusted. He would not lead me astray.
After the encore, the lights turned on, and the mass of bodies moved towards the exit. My group parted down the middle to our respective destinations:homework, or haircutting. From my dorm room I grabbed my only pair of scissors and set out on my mission. Walking down the streets crawling with the convergence of the post concert crowd and pre-woads lineup, I felt suspect holding a pair of scissors in my bare hands. I imagined the college kid crowd outside of Toads seeing me, eyes focusing on the potential weapon in my hand, judging me for not putting my scissors in a bag. I should have bought a bag.
The ridiculously nerve wracking walk finally ended at the Morse gate. My ragamuffin of a boyfriend greeted me at the door with locks grown so long I could barely see his eyes, and he could barely see me. We mobilized to the shower. We set up a chair and stole a comb. Borrowed a comb. When he sat down in the chair I couldn’t see his face — only a carpet of wet curls waiting to be cut. It made it easier; if I messed up, I wouldn’t have to look him in the eyes, and he wouldn’t be able to see the anxious look I made with every chop. I started in the back, recalling the technique I’d learned earlier. Brushing out small sections at a time, holding them taut and snipping off the ends in an even line. I’m sorry if these are incorrect hair cutting instructions. After the first section of hair, I started to feel confident. It looked good. It looked like his hair, just a bit shorter.
The power of it — to cut hair — is intoxicating to me. It was fun. Snip snip snip, and before I knew it, the haircut was done. The pressure of forming his new look for the next few weeks lingered, but when his hair dried it was barely noticeable — just more groomed. Since then his hair has grown out a bit. It’s almost back to the length it was before; I’d really been quite frugal with the length I cut.
In all truth, haircuts can be emblematic of identity — an expression of self as much as clothing styles are. The day before I left for college, I got a haircut. My long hair became a ginger bob with bangs, a silhouette now synonymous with my persona. I’ve sustained the look since then, it seems to fit this time of my life. I often wonder if one day, I’ll look back on this era the way I look back on all past style choices I’ve since moved on from. I’ve never cried at a haircut but I’ve mourned with those who have. It’s just hair. “It grows back,” I said, a reassurance that fell flat in a moment of distress well beyond rationality. At least that’s what I told my boyfriend.