The One with the irreversible Cut

artwork by the author

On Tuesday, November 4, 2024, the day before the election, I already feel jittery. I try to follow my usual self-care routine. I play Satie on the piano to fill my ears with calming tunes. I draw animals to reconnect with my people. I practice yoga to center myself. But nothing calms me down.

My phone rings while I work on one of my dog drawings. It’s my hairdresser. I had scheduled my hair appointment for tomorrow, for election day. The idea was to show up for myself, to stick to a normal routine. “Your usual hairdresser is sick,” says the woman on the phone. “Do you want to come anyway and work with a substitute?” “Sure,” I say. Showing up feels important. The next day, I can hardly focus on work. I constantly check the news. I feel relieved when it is finally time to go to my hair appointment. I look forward to having my busy brain massaged. I tell the substitute hairdresser, “Small layers to enhance my curls. Long in the front. I need to be able to put my hair up for yoga.” “Yes, yes, “ she says. I decide to trust the process. Big mistake. She finishes in just five minutes. I look in the mirror. One massive layer. No curls. Short in the front. I almost cry. “I had to be done that way,” she says. I fake a smile, pay, and go home. At home I cry. I try yoga again, but I’m too upset to practice. I go to bed with my phone. I keep checking the news: CNN, NYT, The Guardian. In the early morning hours CET, Pennsylvania is lost. It is over.  

The next day, I stumble through work. I get condolence texts from all over the world. I try to hide my hair under a hat. At home, I cry again. I cry about the election. I cry about my hair. I feel like I should have prepared better, just like the politicians. It is no longer enough to assume my worldview is so self-evident that others will automatically share it. My idea of my perfect haircut was clearly not the substitute’s idea of a perfect hair cur. I feel, the so-called layers of my hair are a disaster. A half-long fringe encircling my head. It is irreversibly bad. So are the results of the election. My hair will have to grow back. Politics will have to go back to Start.

The following day, I visit a different hairdresser. This time, I prepare. I take advise. I go to a friend’s recommendation. The new hairdresser works on my hair for a long time. It gets shorter and shorter. In the end, it looks okay-ish. Yet the first cut is still irreversible. It will take time for my hair to grow back. It will take time for the world to recover. If it ever does. I will need plenty of hair clips to make my hair manageable. The country will need plenty of accommodations to work through the aftermath. It will take time to learn not to take anything for granted. I am already waiting for my next haircut and, at the same time, dreading it.