hair

My hair has always been a physical manifestation of my inner world, each style a chapter in my story of self-discovery. College was a whirlwind of newfound freedom, reflected in highlights, bangs, and a bold chop. Then came the shaved head – a spontaneous and liberating decision that felt right at the time. It symbolized shedding the past and starting fresh, truly myself. This exploration extended beyond haircuts. My evolving gender identity and sexuality found expression in unique styles, each change a way to claim my space in the world.

But life shifted dramatically. The pandemic, graduation, and a tough breakup all hit at once. Faced with a big decision, I packed my bags and flew to New York City in 2021, a total stranger in a new environment. It was scary and exciting, a chance to hit reset on everything.

And that's kind of what happened with my hair too. I decided to take a break from all the changes, letting it grow and do what it did without any real guidance. For the past 4-5 years, it's been untouched by scissors and dye.

However, this newfound growth has sparked introspection. I remember a pivotal moment in December 2019, after a wild night. Looking at my reflection, I told myself, "Sav, we need to stop. We need to grow up." Since then, I haven't touched my hair. It's become a symbol of maturity, a reminder of the pandemic, graduation, certificate programs, complex relationships, breakups, and the struggles of acclimating to NYC. The auditions, rejections, self-discoveries, and accomplishments are all woven into the strands of my hair.

My hair hasn't been this long since 2017. I wonder if, by holding onto this symbol of growth, I've become too guarded. Was my vibrant, ambitious side hidden because of the fear of rejection and the pain I left behind in 2021? My authenticity, once considered “unemployable” and "too much," is what I crave to showcase in NYC. I dream of a safe space where I can truly be myself and thrive, where vulnerability isn't a weakness.

I wonder if I've built walls around my heart. Could my lack of success be because I'm holding back my fun, ambitious, and loving side for fear of being hurt again? Is the fear of reliving past rejections stopping me from truly connecting with others? Perhaps the problem isn't finding a safe space, but creating one for myself.

I keep telling myself the problem is that nobody will give me a chance to be authentically me. But I also recognize that I can't expect others to create a safe space for me. Maybe I'm the one who needs to give more freely, to be vulnerable without expecting anything in return. Getting hurt again shouldn't be an excuse to avoid moving forward. It's time to confront the pain and find closure, not freeze the story in time.