I have recently discovered the world of hair styling.
The granite countertop in my bathroom is now covered in hair products; spiking gel, hairspray, freeze spray, pomade, even a flat iron. A year ago, I would have thrown the products away; after all, I thought they took too much effort, and that I didn't have enough time to do my hair every morning.
But after my last couple of haircuts, I would peer into the mirror carefully, and realize how good I looked with my hair styled.
When I first got my hair cut short, it was a simple bob. Then I got layers in the back, and started messing with pomade and hairspray. Then it got more serious; I started straightening the front pieces of my hair, and putting copious amounts of gel and freeze spray into my morning routine. I sometimes wonder if the chemicals will go to my head.
My hair is currently a pixie cut in the back, rock-hard and crinkly with gel. The hair in front of my ears dangles just past my chin, straight and shiny. After experimenting with my layers and fussing with a pair of scissors, I now have some side bangs going on, too.
But the biggest difference is the fact that currently, my hair covers the left side of my face.
I have an emo swish.
I've always parted my hair to the side; it makes my round face look slimmer, my young features look older. It's flattering. I never did anything extreme with it, though; I thought I wouldn't be able to stand all that hair covering my vision.
Now, in addition to one eye fully covered when I set down my can of freezing spray, a couple strands are creeping over my other eye, too.
When I was just entering middle school, I noticed how much emo and scene hairstyles were coming into the media, and thus affecting my classmates. Although it was a bit silly, I had to admit some of the styles were pretty cool. But then I heard people talking about it being an artform, a way to express yourself. I thought that was outrageous . . . and now, I realize it's true.
Now, my hair means something.
I've never been really happy with myself; I've always wanted to lose a few pounds, to have a different hair color, to have a different nose . . . like everybody else, I find imperfections within myself. And it bothers me . . . a lot. People just don't know; to everyone else, I'm the confident, quirky girl with high self-esteem, the one that lets insults just roll off her back.
To me, the back of my hair?short, spiked-up, stiff as porcupine quills - represents how other people see me; wild, confident, unique. The front of my hair - longer, silky, covering my face - is how I am, deep inside my soul; quiet, afraid of what others think. The hair in front is also like a cover; I can hide what I'm feeling, I can do whatever I want - under that cover, I am whoever I want to be, I can make bold statements. I can cover my flaws and give off a feeling of confidence, of self-assurance. I can make people look at me differently . . . I can make them believe that I bounce back from an insult, that I always have a witty comeback after a rude remark.
I can be invincible.
As I make my way through the school day, as I finger the hard spikes and twirl the smooth layers - a habit I've formed - my hair brings me the confidence I never would have had before. I can muster up the courage to talk to my crush, or tell the popular kids poking fun at one of my friends to knock it off. I look good, and I know it.
Okay, so maybe I'm just being overly dramatic. Maybe I'm being too poetic. Hey, feel free to tell me that; It'll look like you didn't even bother me.
This is Keena, armed with spiking gel and a bottle of hairspray.
