Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow: Learning to Accept Disability

When I was a kid, my curly, blonde hair was much celebrated in my family. As a result, my parents took great pains to find hairdressers that could do a good job cutting it. My dad and grandparents took me to a fancy salon in Philadelphia, and my mom was always changing hairdressers in Maine, trying to find the one that could give the perfect cut. Much discussion was devoted to who knew best how to cut curly hair.

I didn't much care about how I looked, but I grew up thinking that I had to go to a fancy salon in order to get a decent haircut; that something awful would happen to my hair if I didn't. What, I don't know, but that was what I thought. So, when I was in college and needed a haircut for the first time, I panicked a little. I didn't know where people on a more limited budget went for haircuts. I didn't know if they would "ruin" my hair, if there was something dreadfully wrong with going to just anyone. But, I soon found out, it was actually much easier going to places like Supercuts; you could go anytime you wanted to, and were generally in and out in 10 minutes. My hair always turned out fine. For a fraction of the price, too. I began to wonder how it could have possibly taken half an hour to cut hair before.

After I left college, or to be more exact, shortly before I left college, I developed something
called multiple chemical sensitivity (MCS). This made me extremely sensitive to all kinds of scented things, from perfumes, body lotions and shampoos to housing materials, new paints, cleaning materials and so on. I had to leave college because of it. I had to look for a place to live for two years, bouncing from place to place (around 12 or so in two years), because I reacted to things in every place I tried to live. I also had to find new and creative ways of getting a haircut.

At first, I decided I could keep going to SuperCuts if I was really quick about it, and waited outside for my turn; trying to call ahead to reserve a time if I could, and sometimes bringing different clothes to change into to wear there so my clothes wouldn't stink. And, of course, asking them to use nothing but water. That worked for a few times, but then I got so sensitive to the products they used and the other chemicals in the building that going there was no longer an option.

So, I looked on Craigslist to try to find someone who would come to my house to give me a haircut. And found one, only 5 minutes away, who did a great and smell free job cutting my hair, for a very reasonable price.

Then I moved to New Hampshire for a bit, and found a small, back to basics barber shop with wood floors and no chemical products used. That worked for that time, but then I had to move.

In Vermont, I found a more expensive stylist whose office I didn't react to.

By the time I got to Montana, though, I couldn't go just about anywhere, and after one disastrous attempt to go to a local barber shop there, I knew I needed a different solution. There was no way I could go into any kind of barbershop or haircutting place again, due to my increasing sensitivities.

I didn't know what to do, because due to the sensory issues that come with my autism, I can't stand the feeling of hair on my head past a certain (very short) length. But because of MCS, I couldn't go anywhere where I could get it cut. The two issues were diometrically opposed.

The solution came in the form of a new friend, a local taxi driver named Daffney. She offered to cut my hair for free, in a local park. Since it was summer and the weather was made for such an activity, and since she was scent-free, I gladly agreed. We sat on a picnic bench by the river and she did a great job.

Another six weeks went by, though (I usually get my hair cut every four to six weeks), and Daffney wasn't available to do another haircut. She suggested that I try cutting my own hair. At first I balked, saying no way! There's no way I could do that. Isn't cutting hair really....complicated? Isn't there a million ways you could mess up? I wouldn't even know where to start! But she kept saying, all you need is a comb and a mirror, it's easy. And so, one day, desperate for the hair to be off my head, I tried it. And it worked. In ten minutes, I had the hair off my head, standing on the porch on a beautiful summer day with a scissors and mirror. No clean up, since it was outside; no dealing with smelly environments or people; hardly any time expended. And it came out fine; when your only goal is to cut something as short as possible, then it's really hard to go wrong. I didn't care about style and would consider it a success if there were no (obvious) bald spots. I was so pleased with my new ability. I felt so free. I never had to worry about how I was going to get my hair cut again. I could do it myself. Anytime, anywhere. No depending on someone else or having to deal with poisonous chemicals to do it.
It felt like a milestone.

I did this once more before I left Montana, and six weeks later, in New York, I once again faced the same dilemma. I knew I could cut my hair, but it wasn't summer anymore, and I didn't have a porch. I didn't want to do it inside because I didn't know how I would clean up the hair.
So, after thinking about it for a bit, I decided to do it on the fire escape outside. I didn't have a mirror, which was a bit disconcerting at first, but I decided I didn't need a mirror. It was 25 degrees out and I worried my hands would freeze before I could finish cutting my hair; but I decided to just go for it. So, I climbed out on the fire escape in my coat, with my scissors, and just started cutting. Cutting everywhere I could feel hair, as fast I could, so I could go back inside where it was warm. Again, I figured the goal was to get the hair off the head, and who cared what it looked like. I was more concerned with being able to get enough hair off than getting too much; it was hard to reach certain parts and I didn't want to fail in that goal.

After maybe ten minutes, I went in and looked at my results. Well, it was a lot shorter than I had anticipated, and took a couple minutes to get used to; there was one spot sticking up in the back that I had to cut; but overall, I loved it. It was wonderful! It felt so good to be without hair to deal with on my head. I figured, I don't see hardly anybody in this town anyway, what do I care what it looks like?

I felt great for the rest of the afternoon because my hair felt and looked so good.

When you have a disability, you have to accomodate it, and change your life around it, in a multitude of different ways. At first you say to yourself, "But this is the way it has always been, what will happen if I do this in another way?" Kind of like finding a new and different kind of hair salon. And then after you've adjusted a bit and accomodated a bit, you find yourself having to accomodate more, and tweak more things, and find increasingly difficult ways to get around your disability. Eventually, though, like the haircut, you eventually get to a place where you go back to the basics and find very creative ways to accomodate your disability, and function in the world around you given your limitations. You may, for example, discover the almost primitive joy of cutting your own hair, watching it blow to the wind, and not being reliant on someone else to do it.

Eventually, as you become more self-reliant, you become proud of yourself for being able to handle so many things. You eschew society's conventions in favor of what actually works. And you learn to take joy in the simple things - like an imperfect haircut given to yourself on the fire escape of a cold December day. Disability makes you downsize, reshift priorities, and only keep what's important in your life. It makes you go back to the basics. And sometimes, although you want so much more, that can be a good thing.

Or, as Forrest Gump would say, life is like a series of haircuts.