Losing the locks in the name of love

Blow-drying my hair this morning, I paused and looked up in the mirror, surprised. The golden… Blow-drying my hair this morning, I paused and looked up in the mirror, surprised. The golden strands hang halfway down my back now, long and blond. The day of reckoning approaches.

You see, I have decided to donate my hair to children who cannot grow their own. I first heard about Locks of Love from my friend’s mother. The nonprofit organization (www.locksoflove.com) fashions wigs for financially disadvantaged children with medical hair loss because of cancer, alopecia areata, severe burns and various other causes. They require a minimum ponytail of 10 inches in length and as of this morning I’m at 9 1/4 inches from my chin.

Though some might call this superficial, I’m proud of my hair. I’ll admit, I strive for that artfully disheveled look, never too perfect, and I love playing with all my toys. One look in my bathroom could tell you that. Redken, Bed Head, Pantene, John Frieda, Manic Panic – I’m a product junkie.

In early high school I went through a phase of addiction to hair dye. Red, brown, auburn, strawberry blond, platinum, white streaks and teal tips rotated month to month. People would marvel at how frequently I changed my appearance and I would shrug off their concerns, figuring more hair dye could always fix mistakes.

Then, disaster occurred. At 16, I decided to go Meg Ryan shag short. Rather, stylist Dieter from an unknown country in Europe butchered my hair into a boy-short monstrosity and his attempt to return my locks to blond from red resulted in a brassy orange color not unlike a rotting carrot.

I wanted to crawl up into a hole and perish, but alas, life went on. To complete the deal, I was now the proud possessor of extreme phobias of haircuts and men named Dieter, habits I still cannot quite shake.

Time passed, and I let my hair grow and return to its natural color. I consider my long blond locks to be a part of my identity, and they swirl around my shoulders like a security blanket. Not necessarily something I hide behind, but something that makes me happy and more confident. I’ve been growing out my tresses for four years now, but within six months all my layers should be long enough to donate.

I thought of wimping out, but then I reflected on the luxury of the statement I’d tell people over my frequent cuts and colorings. “It’s only hair … it grows back.” And I realized that although that’s true for me, I’d forgotten about the reality of the girls and boys I wanted to help in the first place.

Childhood is hard enough. Struggles to form friendships, win independence from parents and avoid teasing constitute daily existence. Tragedies such as cancer and disease rob children of the chance for a carefree existence. Losing their hair makes them feel self-conscious about their appearance and less accepted by their peers.

For many of these kids steep medical bills and poverty combine, and purchasing a wig becomes an impossible dream. Handmade wigs start around $3,000 for purchase, and many families just cannot afford this.

Though the act of chopping my hair off is still several months away, I get knots in my stomach thinking about it. In the end, though, I remember the smiling faces of the children who proudly sent pictures of themselves wearing their new hair to Locks of Love to display on their Web site. Screw Dieter’s legacy – this one’s for the kids.

Stephanie Meyer thinks this impending haircut will be as fun as having a cat sewn to her face. Send other similes to sam997@pitt.edu.