Hair.

I never loved my hair.  As a child my mother order it chopped into a variety of unattractive styles that varied from mullets, to mop-style.  Once I was old enough to make my own aesthetic decisions, I began to imitate the heroines of my favorite novels and let my hair grow long.  But the longer my hair grew, the stringier, shaggier it became.  Unlike some of my friends who could sit on their hair, mine never managed to grow past elbow length, no matter how much I sang to it and brushed it like a mane. 

One of my best friends Shawna says that 23 and 27 (and I’ll argue 33 as well) are cosmic years.  Years that bring great, often terrifying changes.  It was in December of my 23^rd year, that a divine force told me to chop off my elbow length hair.  So I did.    My Jew curls looked adorable, and my neck oozed gratitude for not having to carry an extra 2 pounds throughout the day.  I looked punky, edgy.  Perfect for the identity I was carving out for myself as a veritable poet. 

Two days after the big chop, I biked over to the apartment of Tim, the guy I was dating at the time. Tim, aka, “The Emperor of Pale”, was a pasty Berkeley student who loved to watch South Park, eat Nabisco cookies and play video games.  We met at Albatross Pub playing darts with our mutual friend Daan.  Other than Cal and liking popcorn, we had nothing in common.  I remember coaxing him to attend my poetry reading and watching him sulk in the corner folding his program into a paper swan.

I preened my pixie cut in the doorknob before Tim opened the door.  He looked tempted to slam it in my face.  “Oh wow,” he mumbled.  “You look really different.”  That night, we watched South Park and slept on opposite sides of the bed.  He never called me again.

I more or less enjoyed my haircut until two weeks later when I moved down to San Mateo Ixtatan in Guatemala.  As I soon learned, in Mayan culture, the greatest punishment a young woman could receive was having her hair chopped off.  The Spanish took advantage of this back in the day and would sheer off the manes of women who fought back when being raped.  

My short hair, perhaps more than even my gringa skin, received look after look of disgust from certain Mateanos.   Each night I massaged my poor scalp praying that it would sprout out quickly like a chia pet. 

It wasn’t until 1 year later that I could pull it back into a ponytail again.  Such relief.   Roughly 3 years later it returned to its original length, just past my elbows.  And there it remained until 5 days ago, the evening of my 33^rd birthday. 

Three weeks ago, I arrived at Piracanga, an Eco village in the south of Bahia, Brazil.  Piracanga is located on the crossroads of the river and the Atlantic Ocean.  This magical landmark is where, as Afro-Brazilian folklore has it, the sweet water goddess Oshun connects with the salt-water mother Yemanja.  I don’t know how I found Piracanga last year.  Or how Piracanga found me.  But as soon as I arrived here for the first time last July, I knew that I had discovered a veritable paradise. 

Piracanga is a village of roughly 300 residents.  The town itself is peppered with coconut trees, and wooden houses decorated with Indian tapestries and hammocks,. To promote the holistic lifestyle here, all visitor and residents agree to produce no waste, eat only vegetarian food (mostly vegan) and refrain from alcohol and drugs.

The village earns its income by hosting self-knowledge and healing courses.  Last year I came for two of these:  SYM (Surf, Yoga and Music) and an Aura Reading course.  When you partake in a course, you stay in their eco-hotel and get to savor their vegan restaurant 3 meals a day.   Yum!  Three meals a day you feast on fresh papaya and mangos, and vegan varieties of Brazilian delicacies like feijoada and moqueca.  By the end of my three weeks, I had lost all desire for cheese and wine, and decided that I would be a vegan from there on out.  Which I was, for about 12 hours, until I returned to Rio with its Pao de Queijo temptation.  But no, after I returned to America I became a vegan for real for 8 months, inspired by the healing my body found in Piracanga.

What I discovered last year in Piracanga, in addition to learning how to surf and read minds, is that I have a Lake Merritt sized lagoon of sadness inside of me.  Where does this sadness come from?  Some from childhood, lots from adolescence, but even more comes from the past lives of my Jewish ancestors who suffered again and again.  And not to mention the second hand sadness I absorbed from my teenage students who I taught for the past 5 years. 

Regardless of where this sadness comes from, I have tons of it.  In order for me to really become a curandera and open the healing center I dream about, I need to drain some of this swamp of melancholy.  For real, not the false promises of our orange “President”. When I was here in Piracanga last year, I spend hour after hour in the ocean where the ocean goddess Yemanja absorbed my tears.  But just as I began to open some of my deepest wounds for healing, it was nearly August, and time for me to go back to teach. 

This trip is different.  I’ve dedicated these 3 months here in Piracanga to learn, to relax, but mostly to heal so that I can truly dedicate myself to healing others.

In order to have some focus during my time here, I enrolled in the Escola de Natureza (school of nature).   The 2 month course started coincidentally on August 16^th, what would have been my first day of school at ARISE High School if I had stayed.  What delicious freedom I felt on August 13^th, 14^th, 15^th,  as I settled back into my Piracanga routine of morning runs on the beach, coconut water, and all I can eat vegan buffets, knowing that I had to plan NOTHING at all!  Ahhhhh!

The first day of the Escola de Natureza we sat in a circle of backjacks inside an Oca (a huge straw rooved cabana).  We said our names, where we were from, and our purpose for coming to Piracanga.  Nearly everyone was from Brazil, other than a gringo brother named Fabio who was born in New Jersey but had Brazilian parents.  I beamed as I showed off my Portuguese and shared my dream of opening a holistic center in East Oakland to wellness services to folks who don’t currently have access to them.   I shared my intention of curing wounds of mine so that I can fully dedicate myself to curing others.   One of the leaders, Ornella peered into my eyes with a smile that whispered “I have just the cure for you.”  I winced. 

Ornella, later that morning, shared her experience of arriving from Argentina to live in Piracanga.   She discovered the power of reading auras, reiki, other hippy pleasures.  I don’t remember how she got there but eventually she started talking about the first time she shaved her head.  As soon as she said “Cabeza” she started staring at me. 

Ornella described how we carry much of our emotional baggage in our hair.  When she shaved, years and years of pain she had been carrying around disappeared.  She felt light, free and cured of so much suffering.  And she didn’t have to buy shampoo for weeks.  Her hair, which had been damaged from years of dying grew back glowing, healthy and strong.  So luscious was her hair that it attracted multiple lice infections! 

“Think about it,” Ornella shared, “Why is it that little kids get lice but adults never do?  The insects are attracted to healthy hair free of chemicals and pain.  As soon as I shaved off all that suffering, my hair reverted to its childhood bliss.”

As I listened to Ornella, I began to shiver.  “Hell no!” I thought to myself.  I would never do that.  The last thing I want is to look like a concentration camp victim.  I’ve finally reached a place in my life where I feel beautiful, at least most of the time.  I don’t want to mess it up. 

Ornella continued describing how shaving her head liberated her from societal conventions of beauty.

 “As women, we spend so much of our lives trying to be attractive to men.  We wear make-up, spend hours curling or straightening our hair, going to the gym, tanning salons, etc.  For what?  For men to be attracted to our superficial selves?  As soon as I shaved, I was free of all that.  I no longer needed to conform to anyone.  And as a result, suddenly I became more beautiful.  Because my soul was glowing without the mask of hair to hide it.  Of course, this was easier in Piracanga where everyone values healing and non-conventional beauty.  When I returned to Argentina with shorn hair, my family thought I had gone crazy.  People gave me their seat on the bus because they thought I had cancer.  It wasn’t always easy, but I developed a new confidence.  Eventually my hair grew back, and I grew back stronger and happier than ever.” 

“Oh hell no.” I confirmed to myself.  “I’ll never!” But I felt the breath of God whispering down my throat, “You know you don’t mean that.”  Argh! 

For the next two weeks, I couldn’t get the hair dialogue out of my head (no pun intended).  Walking on the beach, I heard voices screaming down at me “Shave!  Shave! Shave!”  NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!  I shouted back.  “Never!”  Each evening I savored brushing coconut oil into my hair, drawing out the strokes, scoffing at my image of a bald God in the sky. 

But deep down I knew that Ornella was right.  My hair was horribly unhealthy.  I had dyed it (funny how dye and die are homonyms) at least 10 times in the last ten years.  Every time I went in for a cut the barber winced and begged me to let her sheer off 4 or 5 inches.  Whenever I wore my hair down, everyone told me “You look so great!  You should wear it down more often!” 

Poetry party 2013--One of the rare pictures I could find with my hair down

But I never did.  I hated the feeling of a carpet rubbing against my neck.  Perhaps on a subconscious level, I never wore my hair down because it was like airing out my dirty laundry.  By tying my hair up in a bun all the time, nobody could see all the pain and loneliness hidden in those follicles.  But I felt it, pounds and pounds of weight that tugged at my neck day after day after day. 

Two weeks later, the evening before my 33^rd birthday,  Mama Bear friend Luana invited the School of Nature crew over for pasta.  After we cleaned the dishes, Julio pulled out an electric razor.  He and Camila began to hop around like little rabbits screaming “Vamos raspar vamos raspar!” (Let’s shave let’s shave!)  Camila wrapped a shawl around her neck and untied her shoulder-length blond hair.  “Thank God!  I’m so ready for this hair to go!” 

I watched Julio snip off her ponytail. Her proceeded to shave off her locks until she was bald as a sheep.  Oh my God.  Camila, who could be a supermodel, still looked absolutely stunning.  If not more beautiful.  The whole time I watched, my stomach was lurching. As I hugged Camila after she finished, I whispered, “You look amazing.  And you know, I’ve been thinking about shaving mine ever since Ornella spoke.  But I’m not quite ready, you know.  I need to think about it a bit more.”  Camila nodded.  “Take your time.  It’s a big decision.”

But as they began to clean up the mess, I realized that if I didn’t do it that night, I never would.  The energy was palpable, and God had been coaxing me for weeks that shaving was part of the cure I was craving.  “You know what!” I blurted out, “I want to shave too!”

“Are you sure?”  Camila asked.

“No! Cut it off now!”

Camila sat me down on the folding chair and asked me one more time if I was ready.  “Just do it please!” I whispered, “Before I change my mind!”  She grasped my long ponytail and snipped it off.  Then she pulled out the electric razor and turned it on.  It puttered, and shut off.  Piracanga has very few problems but one of them is that because the village is solar powered so the electricity at night only lasts so long. 

“I don’t think it will work anymore this evening,” Julio said. “We can charge it tomorrow morning when the sun comes up.”

“No!” I thought to myself, “If I don’t do it now, I’ll just settle for neck length hair.”  I asked Camila if she could cut it as short as possible so that I couldn’t turn back.  She did.

That evening, I couldn’t get over my new look.  It was surprisingly cute, but I wondered if I had made a huge mistake.  I thought back to Tim, and realized that my hair was at least 3 times shorter than back then, and it still wasn’t fully shaved! 

The next morning, I sang happy birthday to myself and stumbled down to 6am yoga.  There I whispered to Camila that I wanted to shave it all off as soon as possible. She plugged in the razor, which would need a few hours to charge. 

After yoga, Camila, Rodrigo and I went for a gorgeous run along the beach.  What an amazing birthday!  When we came back, Rodrigo unplugged the razor and shaved the rest of my hair off completely!  I waved down to the ribbons of fuzz that had accumulated on the ground.  All that day, and pretty much every day since then, I rubbed my fingers back and forth across my skull.  It’s quite pleasurable actually, like petting a Chihuahua.  My hair feels thicker and stronger as it’s growing back.  I’ll probably write about lice in my next blog.

Camila and me: Careca sisters!!!

Did I make the right choice in shaving?  Who knows?  It’s easy to be a “careca” (the Portuguese word for a person with a shaved head) here in Piracanga.  Most people here have short hair, having shaved their head at least once in the last few years  They look back at the experience with great nostalgia.  “Oh, shaving was so wonderful!  I felt so free.  You look amazing! Congratulations!”

My feelings oscillate.  Most of the time I manage to absorb their compliments. I admire my strength, my fearlessness.  I feel free of the emotional baggage I was carrying.  I feel stronger, and I do acknowledge that raspando was an important step in my healing process. 

At the same time, it’s difficult sometimes to look in the mirror and see a nearly bald Jennifer.  Looking like an Auschwitz prisoner.  What have I done!  I’ll have to wait at least another three years until it grows back long again! 

But then I think about my beloved Grammy and my Godmother Marcy.   Both were diagnosed with cancer within the last three years.   I’ve seen both of them lose their hair in chemo, and wear wigs and scarves with style.  Little by little, both of their hair has grown back.  They look gorgeous, confident and strong.  I’ve cried many times since I shaved, feeling both so close to them emotionally and so far geographically.  My shaved hair has also brought me closer to my own dear mother, a healer herself, She has also donned short hair my entire life.  

So many tears.  The loss of conventional beauty.  Feeling it be replaced by a deeper, internal radiance.  Witnessing the pain in my scalp be transformed into divine forgiveness, solidarity and love.  And feeling free to dive into the ocean multiple times a day because my hair will dry instantly!  I guess God knew what she was talking when she was screaming in my ear. 

Conducted by the drumbeat of the stars

Along the shores of Marau

the coconut trees laugh at their own stillness.

Let us celebrate their roots, which never flinch

even when ants tickle between their toes.

“Look at our stillness!” they lament,

“All we are good for is shelving coconuts

and being huggable for poets

who cling to our trunks to release their pain”

Even the most confident Coquero

takes guilty pleasure comparing his laziness

to Yemanja, ocean goddess.

From the tree branches I watch my seamother

samba back and forth, back and forth,

in and out of the moonlight.

Does she ever take an intermission?

Why is nobody supervising me here?  

Somebody should be watching as I

run along the shore of my memories,

running my fingers through the nest of hair

I lost in another frenzy of rejuvenation. 

Somebody help me stop these waves!

Only the moon cries back.

She tells me where to rest

my hand to stop this carousel

of earth spinning round my bones,

uprooting oak trees from my roots,

shredding rose gardens, draining deltas,

bays, and painting the graves

in silver, green and gold. 

Somebody call me Avocado head!

These days I let no one call me Jennifer.

Jennifer wore stilettos and carried an AK47

to defend her hair.  Jennifer would never sing

to jars of coconut-oil on the counter.     

Jennifer would be counting casualties

on the shorn forest of her scalp. 

She would never stop to ask the moon

if she takes sugar in her tea. 

On this honeyed evening,

Jennifer frightens no children.

I do.  Even the bees shield their stripes

from the moon and I.  They buzz,

taking turns napping under the lanterns

of our skulls.   An early purgatory. 

Oh beautiful shaven head,

How much longer will the sheep

baa at me in commiseration?

Three evenings later. God appeared

to me, just before midnight.  She coaxed me

to the kitchen to coconut-oil the casserole dish

bequeathed to me by the moon. 

I removed my cage of hair

from the plastic bag and spread

 all 10 years of loneliness

into the cracks and edges. 

The hair baked.  The odor sickened

even the coconut trees who purred

in their cannibalistic slumber.

We remembered Auschwitz together

before the trees began to mumble

 “Remember me” in their dreams.

Remember me,  I whispered back

in my wakeness.  Sonambulists, me,

the moon, we remembering Jennifer

and celebrating how we remembered

and were remembered by the symphony

of trees that evening, conducted

by the drumbeat of waves and winds and stars.