A Haircut at Little Hollow
Dear reader,
If you have followed my writing recently, you will understand that it has been a while since I have had a haircut. I’ve spent much of this year in intensive mental health care and so I think it is reasonable to say that a haircut hasn’t been much of a priority. Now, though, I am starting to put my life back together, and it therefore was finally time to get a trim. Last week, my partner and I finally ventured into Somerville to our favorite salon, which is hidden on the corner of a random busy street.
Hair at Little Hollow is unlike any other salon I have been to. It is the very witchiest of spaces, a blur of black, purple, orange, and leather. Coffin-shaped shelves are adorned with hair products and skulls, and the entire place is dressed artfully in gothic décor. The stylists themselves give life to the spooky theme, and bring an enchanting vibe whilst dressing the part, too. I am confident that when they are not cutting hair, they must be working on magical potions in the back. Yet make no mistake, the stylists are immensely skilled, and they receive rave reviews across the board. The salon, ultimately, is a slice of Salem in the already-trendy City of Somerville. If you are in the area, you should absolutely go!
Anyway, I digress.
Dear reader, one of the effects I have experienced of being in the psych hospital for so long is that physical touch is now is really, really uncomfortable and difficult for me. Maybe it was because you weren’t allowed any physical contact with any patients in there, or maybe it was just the isolation, but it is something I am keenly aware of now. Even a hug feels discomfiting, and personal touch — like rubbing lotion into my legs — is too much. My mind still believes that I do not deserve and am not worthy of self-love and self-care. It is a constant battle of my mind and at the moment I am not winning. This might be familiar to you, Dear reader, and I am sorry if it is. I understand.
All of that is quite incompatible with getting a haircut, isn’t it?
Yet somehow, it wasn’t.
When the stylist started to shampoo my hair and massage it into my scalp, I cringed hard inside and wanted to run straight out of the salon and flee into eternal obscurity. Yet I stayed in my chair, and with every minute that passed, I gradually — glacially — began to remember what these feelings were and how they felt in the before-times. I started to recall what self-love and self-care could feel like and be, and I recognized too the mental battle and cognitive distortions that stop me from feelings such things. The shampooing and rinsing of my hair therefore became an almost spiritual moment, an act that broke through my dam of self-hate and started to suggest that maybe I might be able to feel good — feel joy, even pleasure — in the future. It was a powerful moment, and I would be lying if I said that my eyes did not get hot and wet. I had to wipe a few tears away, and I was grateful that the stylist didn’t notice. Little did the stylist know, but those few minutes were so important to me.
As you might expect from such a cool, spooky salon, it is a deeply inclusive space. The LGBTQ+ progress flag flies proudly in the window and there is pride paraphernalia throughout. On my trips there, I have seen plenty of queer clients come and go, often leaving with the coolest cuts and the brightest colors. I am always so jealous of them, and I always resolve to get bright colors in my hair one day too. As I was getting my hair styled (and I love it, by the way), a young queer person came in to get their haircut and it was just the sweetest thing and it made me so happy to see someone (like me) feel so comfortable in the space. They were so elegant, smart, and fashionable. Then, Dear reader, a young trans person walked into the salon, dressed accordingly with cute trans badges on their bag. They were just getting booked in for a future appointment, Dear reader, but it nearly broke me. It took all my strength to not totally emotionally (and very loudly lose it). When they sauntered out, I let a few tears privately flow. The stylist did notice this time, but she offered a ‘allergies are brutal at this time of year’ and I was happy to pretend that was the case.
I was just overwhelmed with happiness and big feelings about witnessing young queer people and trans people just like me enjoy and feel so safe and happy in this space. It touched my heart because I loved them and they were just like me and it broke my heart because I loved them and I wish I could have been them, once. The trans grief of lost childhoods and lost years is no small thing, and it is a substantial trauma that hacks away at my soul.
And thus my visit to Little Hollow, as it always is, was an eventful experience, but this time was special — it was a deeply meaningful moment — a kodak moment — in my mental health recovery and transition journeys.
I guess, Dear reader, that sometimes a haircut can be more than just a haircut.
