I Am Not My Hair

Growing up as the son of a hairdresser I spent too much time as a kid sitting bored during holiday season or after school as finished in a quiet corner of the salon so as an adult the last place I want to spend any time at all is the hairdressers or barbers. I want to get in and, as little time sitting waiting for my name to be called and having my head in front of the mirror as possible

Not much in the way of chit chat, or small talk. No fussing, no running a hand through my hair looking into my eyes through the mirror reflection and asking me whether I want it this way or that. I'm happiest when there is no wait, and they just get down to it, spray my greasy hair with water, ignore any instructions I may have because quite frankly beyond getting rid of that annoying bit at the back that curls up when its getting too long I don't really know anyway. I'm quite happy if the barber just treats my head like its the Australian Sheep-shearing championship, scissors, comb, shoves my head from side to side, snip, snip, snip, done.

And yet dispute all this being true for me, there is a part of me that walks past strangers in the street and sees amazing hair on a daily basis and has a little bit of envy, not jealousy as such (because I'm way to lazy for that) but more awe. Some people seem to have hair that is like an extension of their character and personality, and others can rock having no hair. And then there is me washing mine with cheap shampoo and wondering why it feel likes straw afterwards and not caring enough to change it, as long as its not starting to curl up at the back – because then it has to come off.

Maybe I should start a new photo project and capture some of that wonderful hair out there, now that would be irony - something Mr I've spent so much time avoiding any interest in turning full circle to his roots.