The Naked Infinity Circle

Spirit had been whispering to me for weeks. Kindly, softly. Eventually though, spirit gets louder and louder the more we ignore her. No anger, no resentment, just an ask - a fervent ask to be seen.

Every time I pass myself in the mirror lately I cannot stop thinking about everything that could be better, prettier, younger. My mind has been infiltrated insidiously by the media, the social networks, the news, the lack of culture, capitalism, the machine - I could go on and on, but the bottom line is that I slipped slowly from the space of self-love into the depths of self-criticism.

Nothing I do changes it - wearing makeup, cutting my hair, wearing flattering clothing, getting myself ready. It doesn’t help because it is all inconsequential. Performative. I know how I feel about myself. I know how I worry about how others perceive me.

Over several days, I began to care less because I simply could no longer carry the emotional burden. Spirit softly whispered, “take back your power - love.” I had no idea what it meant, nor did I care. I was SO over it, over everything.

“Reclaim yourself. I am ready to be free,” she’d whisper again, this time more firmly. Still, I didn’t quite understand.

One day, it hit me. She was as clear as could be: “Shed it all. Shave your head.”

No, that wasn’t spirit was it? That was just a random thought, a wild extraneous thought.

Shave your hair. Shave it down. Feel your scalp. You cannot leave this body without seeing your scalp. Feel the breeze on your barren wasteland. Feel the breeze on the freshly tilled soil. Allow for whatever may come.

Uh oh. This didn’t seem like a random chain of thought.

More days passed. The feeling grew stronger. Finally, I woke up one day and called my best friend.

“Sis, I need to tell you something.”

“Let me hear it!” she said.

“I’m being called to shave my head.”

She held space wonderfully, helped me move through the feelings. I asked if there was a cultural reference for this, as I know white America only sees it two ways: she’s either sick or mentally unstable. I am neither.

We decided it wasn't cultural, this feeling, but spiritual. Many women over the centuries have been called to shave their hair. I was no exception.

One thing my sweet friend left me with held me steady through the next twenty-four hours. She said:

“Don’t feel obligated to take this version of yourself with you into the next. There will be a new you and she has got you.” (Or something very similar to this.)

The words comforted me like a warm blanket on a blistering day. Deep down I knew her to be right. I didn’t have to carry the old me into the future. In fact, spirit doesn’t want me to bring that version of myself with me. That’s the meaning of the shaving of the hair - how can I be concerned about my hair, my looks, my presentation when there’s nothing to worry over? A simple solution, but effective.

The shaving of the hair was to be the physical reflection of my inner peace after it was all said and done. A badge of honor stating to myself each day, “I did this. I committed to myself.” It was a promise kept to the soul to allow myself to be truly free. That meant to open myself to being truly loved.

Looking at myself in the mirror, witnessing my messy hair and blemished face was the hardest part. I feel as so many before me feel; like my reflection is not my own. I am not the woman I see in the mirror. I am tired of seeing this woman, this intruder; someone who looks like me but is no longer me.

The scissors were small and almost brittle. I held them to my hair. I tried to cut. Something pulled at my heart strings. Foreboding regret? Did I change my mind?

No. I was attempting to bypass the feelings, the emotions behind the welling tears. I thought that the faster I started to get this over with, the quicker we could get to the end. The quicker I could gloss over the heartache of becoming someone new.

No such luck. I forced myself to put the scissors down and feel. I cried for all the wasted days, the wasted moments of self-loathing. I cried for the woman who was. I cried for the woman who slept on herself and her greatness for so long.

The time for tears was short, and I picked up the scissors again. This time, I still had the nervous energy, the adrenaline of anticipation flying through my veins. It didn’t matter. I quickly started to cut.

I found that cutting the back first eased the heart rate. The strings of hair came out in clumps. The more I cut, the faster they’d fall. Cut, cut, cut. Before I knew it, my hair was unevenly jagged. For the first time, I smiled. The woman I’d been waiting for, the one I felt but was waiting to see showed a glimpse of herself in the absence of my thick veil of hair.

The clippers were much different than the scissors. I’d used them many times to cut my husband and my boys’ hair. But, this time was different. This time it was my hair. I’d shaved my hair with an inch guard one other time in my life and it felt very different to this experience. Then I was severing a cord. A cord to an identity that took over my being; motherhood. Now, I was releasing myself, freeing the bird from the cage.

The clippers physically felt different this time too. The way they vibrated against my skin was so foreign. I could feel the air hit my scalp as soon as I cut the first strip. It felt bizarre and surreal and glorious. I was finally starting to taste my freedom.

Raking the clippers over and over my scalp repeatedly until the job was finished took about twenty minutes. I was really impressed with the fact that it was pretty even on the first pass. At some point toward the end I realized there would be a final moment, a moment where I’d look at myself and the final swipe will have been done. That in a few moments, I would be practically bald.

Looking into the mirror I made the final pass. I powered the clippers off and put them on the hair-covered bathroom sink. Staring into the blue-grey eyes in front of me, the only thing I can do is smile.

And that’s the story of how I shaved my head. For spirit, for love, for freedom. To see myself, to see her in all her glory as I’d seen in visions past. Joy does not describe the feeling within. The breeze constantly swirling around my scalp, the tingles tickling the spine. It all made sense. A nakedness that felt invigorating, that has accompanied me throughout this journey fraught with vulnerability and courage reveals to me myself over and over again. Seeing my reflection in the mirror I finally got to see the person I’ve been feeling like on the inside all this time. To finally meet myself is a glowing gift. A gift that I feel will continue to keep on giving until the end of time.

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