But what does hair signify to you? Why should you feel the need to cut it? Cut down to the basics, down to the skeleton of what you want to get at. These are the things that made me wonder. Why is it such a big deal to cut hair? I know I can. I know I must, but why do I have to wait for it?
I'm truly quite some person whom is so sensitive, and reactive to their environment, sometimes I wonder who I am. If all of my identity is merely how I've seen the world reflect me. Would I ever have liked blue if it weren't for my older brother? Would I have cut my hair short if it weren't for the idea that I'm more gorgeous to men with it on? Do I like myself more with it?
I like feeling my head. I like there being no restrictions on how I would like to express appreciation for myself. I wanted to initially call this piece.. "Hair, cutting." And then after having heard the critiquing of everyone else's titles, I became self doubting, unconfident. I was leaning on to what I had wanted other people to like of it. "Here's the title, I named it this because I thought you all would like it! : ). "
When I caught myself thinking along that line of thought, I became disconnected with what was going on around me. I wasn't that involved in the works of my fellow classmates', but I couldn't focus. What was I doing? I am doing this for me. I can't believe I endeavored to let this hair grow so long - for longer than it should've.
When you wake up after a dream, after a dreadful eternity-like state, after you step out of it you feel taller and above what you had experienced. The hill isn't as big when you look down it. Dualistically I suppose, you must have a hill in order to conquer it. That's why I must be here. It takes two hundred and forty months of life to accumulate to twenty years.
This morning I woke up later than expected for school. Although I was 2 minutes early for class, I took my time this morning. I didn't put my hair up. I let it down to feel the wind. I adored its length and its health. A beautiful shine. But it soon became uncomfortable. In the way. Sticky and moist, stuck onto the back of my neck. A burden was always there. And to think, I would ask people "Hey, do you think I should get rid of this burden? Do you like it? I want to get rid of it!" And they would reply, "Your burden is beautiful. It's gorgeous, and it makes you better and me like you more. Self-loathing is a beautiful thing Kim, and your burden suits you very much."
"Okay." So impassive. I've been so shy lately, less expressive. Less alive. I stop myself from getting angry, I stop myself from getting happy. I stop myself from defending my friends, I stop myself from being friendly. I stop myself from liking myself, and I stop myself from knowing what I want. Or at least listening to what I want in these moments which pass me by, and which is the only time spent alive.
Do I take myself for granted?
As I walk up to the podium, I am shaking. I know I want to draw the attention of their eyes onto the scissors - so I force their attention on it by the sound they make when slammed onto the podium. I don't want to struggle to get up onto the podium, I want to walk up straight, but it is high. Their attention has been brought to the scissors, the sound hopefully still rhythmic in their ears and this gives me the chance to break away and grab a chair I had seen before.
My hands are shaking and I know I want them to hear me exhale; I've been practicing how to calm down all day. The first snip is light and quick, but I can see my knuckles shaking in the light. I want strong hands, but I have to have a strong heart, so I must calm down again, and exhale this bad energy. It's not the cutting that gets me out-of-whack, it's how my hair is still touching me. I can still feel it past my shoulders. I'm so indulgent, I consciously remind myself to slow down and feel the richness of each sound, snap, and release.
The sound gives the movement of the scissors life; the blades run against each other - snapping each individual strand so their sounds coalesce into one singular scream. Over and over. Breathing cries of release. The hair falls softly, and I can see individual strands, float up around me. They are caught by the slightest air movement in this still and dark room. I loved seeing their weightless bodies float around me, beautiful like snow.
My hair was encased within this protective shelter of aesthetics. Although it was beautiful and long and curly, dark and rich, no split ends, no dry spots - it was the most restrictive and unjustifiably praised cap onto my expression. I feared cutting it because it would be short! I would be less pretty and therefore less loved, yet less free.
I then came to my big chunk of hair which I wanted OFF of my head, and my scissors wouldn't give. I had such loathsome feelings towards this chunk of hair, but I loved the effect of the scissors not being able to make it through. Cutting hair can be easy, but why did it feel hard for me to do? As I cut, I let out hate. I feel lighter, I feel in control, and I'm still ever so shaky.
Watching the hair fall was as soothing as watching the waves come in and pull out into the ocean. The subtle rhythm of tug and pull, watching the shiny curved lines fall and then disappear. Seeing my rhythmic creations reflecting light, then go and fade into darkness.
I couldn't help from smiling a little, I was feeling relieved. I knew I was cutting my hair, but I knew I was cutting down to reveal my skeleton. What do I want, do I want to be me, who/what is this Kim Watson?
At times I stretched my shoulders out, to represent this entire release from what ever had bound me before. At times I couldn't help but to breath in as much as I could, it was nice to find an old friend. When I would look down at the chair which place marked where my eyes would meet the projected image's eyes, I couldn't stay in that position for long. It was too angled down to linger, and I had to stand up straight.
By pulling the hair and getting the excess out, I wanted the audience to know that this was also an aggressive and violent act in itself. There were times I would've screamed. But the exhale does do fine, as does the sound of the scissors.
I thought I would switch over the scissors to my right hand, so as to let some hair fall onto the left side of the floor. I tried once but they felt more natural in their original grip. I also saw that I was holding the scissors with my fingers in the wrong loops - but that's the scissor telling me where I should hold them.
I consistently pull at my hair's length. When it's short enough for me to massage my scalp with the palms of my hands, euphoria is felt. Full loving grasps, I've longed for this feeling since it was gone. I let my eyes shut, I want my audience to know that this is where I want to be, and it does feel this good.
After the performance some said it gripped them with angst, and others said it was pride. My hair wasn't hair to me; I did not see it as a true asset. I saw it as a burden, as a sentence. I had to grow out my hair. It was too uncomfortable to let down, too ugly to have it put up, growing it was my own self torture, and depending on others' judgments of its value was making me fricken insane. And very angry.
Cutting my hair, watching it fall, feeling its lift and release from my hands, having my brian see this was dominating. Those whom I felt entrapped by their petty judgments are the ones who entrap themselves. They wouldn't dare to wear socks and sandals as they depend on the world's approval, to instruct them where to go. That was me.
I feel strong. With my hair no longer on my shoulders, I can now pull them back and raise up my clavicles. My neck is longer.
The pre-presenting thought of cutting hair was a dreadful one. I told so many people what I was going to do; I was excited and scared at the same time. Even the live-presentation aspect was disquieting too. How do I carry myself? Can I be serious? What do I want to say? How do I want to feel? My ideas were evolving right up until the exit, when instead of turning to the right, and into the room to the side of the wall being projected, I instead left as I had entered. Stepping my foot down, putting the scissors down, and without even giving it the full respect of a stare, merely turned to it and walk away. I went back around the audience, looking no-one in the eyes, I just needed to hear that door shut.
The one thing that I could've done better, which Anna said, was to not sell my audience short of their reactions. To not doubt myself in how well I could perform, and to not think less or expect lesser of reactions to my performance. She had said that if I had even just walked out of the room and let them sit there to digest what they had just seen, it would've been fine too.
I like that because it meant I actually had something to say, and they had heard it.
I was thinking of naming it "Less".
