Hair
If you look at pictures of me when I was younger, you'll find a small, bald child toothily smiling back at you from the photograph. At the time, I never really cared about it; it was just another thing that my parents did and that was that. My parents shaving my head then constituted my very first transformation; from the curly-haired toddler that I was before to the bald four-year-old you'll see in those very same pictures from what seems like eons ago.
A couple years later, I asked my mother about what happened to that hair. She told me, like all South Indian parents tell their children, that she loaded it into a Ziploc bag, mailed it to India, and had my grandmother and grandfather climb to the top of a mountain in Andhra Pradesh to offer my hair to the gods.
Now, to the typical non-Indian reader, this may seem weird, or foreign. But the reason for this is quite poignant.
In Hinduism, creation is less of a genesis, and more of a becoming. Those acquainted with Kabbalistic Judaism may understand this. All things are God, all gods are God, and all beings are God. Most importantly, all should be revered as such. Creation isn't the act of springing into existence from nothing, but rather the act of distinguishing yourself from God, becoming unique, and becoming something that exists outside of everything and nothing.
Because of this, creation represents an errant branch of what the soul should be. Uniqueness in and of itself must be a sin; the soul should be one with God, not inhabiting a mere physical form. As a result, those who die tied to the mortal world will remain in it as such; our souls are recycled until we truly detach ourselves from the world of the living and finally ascend to whence we came.
The hair a baby is born with represents their past life: their past sins, virtues, joys, miseries, and everything in between. In shaving a baby's head, it's a chance to start afresh; a blank slate. In general, hair represents identity - that of a past life, and that of your current life. It's recognizable, unique, and one of the few things that makes you, you. In giving your hair to the Lord, you give to him a small piece of your identity, and you blur the lines between the self and the universe. With each strand lost, I slowly inch closer to oneness, and in turn, enlightenment.
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"vasamsi jirnani yatha vihayanavani grhnati naro ’paranitatha sarirani vihaya jirnanyanyani samyati navani dehi"
"Just as a person takes off clothes and wears new ones, the soul casts off its worn out body and enters a new one."
I open up the drawer, revealing the implements of my artistry. Picking them up, I attempt another work. The razor buzzes as it nears my skin, with a vitality characteristic of one that is ready to destroy or to purify, but doesn't know the difference between the two. Like all material things, the time has come for it to end.
The blade glides across my face, pulling the thick black hair along with it. Underneath, it reveals smooth, glowing skin. This was what this is; a genesis, a becoming. Like the careful artisan I am, my blade doesn not create a new form; it is merely revealing and distinguishing what had been buried within all along. It was then that I saw that which had lay beneath. A new form that hadn't been seen in a long time.
I part with my hair like I part with a friend; at peace.
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My facial hair always grew quickly as a kid. Throughout middle school, I always had this unruly mat of curls clinging to my chin, forming black tangles around my face. I never really let it bother me then, it was just another distinct feature that blended into the sea of anomalous pubescent biology characterizing the 8th grade. In fact, it affected me so little that the first person to actually tell me to shave was my father.
My dad was the one who introduced me to all varieties of implements. I first started shaving with a beard trimmer that left my skin peeling, face bleeding, and stubble itchy. Soon, he introduced me to more artistic instruments, like the electric razor, and finally the razor blade, teaching me like a master artist would have taught an apprentice.
Eventually after I moved to Denton for the last two years of my schooling, I had to learn how to do these on my own; the bird had to finally leave the nest. The start was rough, with its fair share of nicks, cuts, and bloodshed in my quest to tame this forest, but, iteration after iteration, I got better and better at it.
As time wore on, it started to become an art form. I developed a sort of ritual when it came to shaving; I'd always make sure to work out before I shave, put myself under the blade, shower, and only then apply aftershave. Every single time I shaved, this routine would take place. It would have to take place. Why? Even I didn't know; I simply didn't let it not happen.
Soon, more and more rituals took place. I would shave the night before before any big presentation; not the morning of, and not the morning before, but precisely the night before. In the case that I had to compete at some event, I would grow my beard out as long as possible. It was a rhythm, a consistent flow that kept the gears grinding and the world turning.
The day I got braces, my teeth hurt like all hell. I never wanted braces; my parents simply forced me into it. I absolutely hated it, and I'd continue to hate it for the year and a half that I wore them. And so, the first day that I had to wear braces, my already shortened fuse was burning low. This searing pain in my skull kept me awake the entire night, as those two infernal strips of metal warped my incisors into place in what would soon become a year-long game of tug of war. The only other thing I remembered from that day was Leo Dong saying that I looked five years younger. In a bout of juvenile spite, I decided to grow my beard out as long as I could that summer, and return to school with a full-grown beard.
Maybe, I thought, the hair could hide my shame.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"sri-bhagavan uvaca kalo 'smi loka-ksaya-krt pravrddho lokan samahartum iha pravrttah rte 'pi tvam na bhavisyanti sarve ye 'vasthitah pratyanikesu yodhah"
"The Blessed Lord said: Time I am, destroyer of the worlds, and I have come to engage all people. With the exception of the Pandavas, all the soldiers here on both sides will be slain."
The razor chips my skin. Blood pours out of the cut, forming a rivulet streaming down my face. I scramble to staunch the wound, but to no avail. The stream continues flowing, trickling down to my chin, like a dark red tear after making the treacherous trek to the bottom of my face. A wound has been opened, destruction and havoc has arrived.
A scar is formed.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
A couple years later, I asked my mother about what happened to that hair. She told me, like all South Indian parents tell their children, that she loaded it into a Ziploc bag, mailed it to India, and had my grandmother and grandfather climb to the top of a mountain in Andhra Pradesh to offer my hair to the gods.
Now, to the typical non-Indian reader, this may seem weird, or foreign. But the reason for this is quite poignant.
In Hinduism, creation is less of a genesis, and more of a becoming. Those acquainted with Kabbalistic Judaism may understand this. All things are God, all gods are God, and all beings are God. Most importantly, all should be revered as such. Creation isn't the act of springing into existence from nothing, but rather the act of distinguishing yourself from God, becoming unique, and becoming something that exists outside of everything and nothing.
Because of this, creation represents an errant branch of what the soul should be. Uniqueness in and of itself must be a sin; the soul should be one with God, not inhabiting a mere physical form. As a result, those who die tied to the mortal world will remain in it as such; our souls are recycled until we truly detach ourselves from the world of the living and finally ascend to whence we came.
The hair a baby is born with represents their past life: their past sins, virtues, joys, miseries, and everything in between. In shaving a baby's head, it's a chance to start afresh; a blank slate. In general, hair represents identity - that of a past life, and that of your current life. It's recognizable, unique, and one of the few things that makes you, you. In giving your hair to the Lord, you give to him a small piece of your identity, and you blur the lines between the self and the universe. With each strand lost, I slowly inch closer to oneness, and in turn, enlightenment.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"vasamsi jirnani yatha vihayanavani grhnati naro ’paranitatha sarirani vihaya jirnanyanyani samyati navani dehi"
"Just as a person takes off clothes and wears new ones, the soul casts off its worn out body and enters a new one."
I open up the drawer, revealing the implements of my artistry. Picking them up, I attempt another work. The razor buzzes as it nears my skin, with a vitality characteristic of one that is ready to destroy or to purify, but doesn't know the difference between the two. Like all material things, the time has come for it to end.
The blade glides across my face, pulling the thick black hair along with it. Underneath, it reveals smooth, glowing skin. This was what this is; a genesis, a becoming. Like the careful artisan I am, my blade doesn not create a new form; it is merely revealing and distinguishing what had been buried within all along. It was then that I saw that which had lay beneath. A new form that hadn't been seen in a long time.
I part with my hair like I part with a friend; at peace.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
My facial hair always grew quickly as a kid. Throughout middle school, I always had this unruly mat of curls clinging to my chin, forming black tangles around my face. I never really let it bother me then, it was just another distinct feature that blended into the sea of anomalous pubescent biology characterizing the 8th grade. In fact, it affected me so little that the first person to actually tell me to shave was my father.
My dad was the one who introduced me to all varieties of implements. I first started shaving with a beard trimmer that left my skin peeling, face bleeding, and stubble itchy. Soon, he introduced me to more artistic instruments, like the electric razor, and finally the razor blade, teaching me like a master artist would have taught an apprentice.
Eventually after I moved to Denton for the last two years of my schooling, I had to learn how to do these on my own; the bird had to finally leave the nest. The start was rough, with its fair share of nicks, cuts, and bloodshed in my quest to tame this forest, but, iteration after iteration, I got better and better at it.
As time wore on, it started to become an art form. I developed a sort of ritual when it came to shaving; I'd always make sure to work out before I shave, put myself under the blade, shower, and only then apply aftershave. Every single time I shaved, this routine would take place. It would have to take place. Why? Even I didn't know; I simply didn't let it not happen.
Soon, more and more rituals took place. I would shave the night before before any big presentation; not the morning of, and not the morning before, but precisely the night before. In the case that I had to compete at some event, I would grow my beard out as long as possible. It was a rhythm, a consistent flow that kept the gears grinding and the world turning.
The day I got braces, my teeth hurt like all hell. I never wanted braces; my parents simply forced me into it. I absolutely hated it, and I'd continue to hate it for the year and a half that I wore them. And so, the first day that I had to wear braces, my already shortened fuse was burning low. This searing pain in my skull kept me awake the entire night, as those two infernal strips of metal warped my incisors into place in what would soon become a year-long game of tug of war. The only other thing I remembered from that day was Leo Dong saying that I looked five years younger. In a bout of juvenile spite, I decided to grow my beard out as long as I could that summer, and return to school with a full-grown beard.
Maybe, I thought, the hair could hide my shame.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"sri-bhagavan uvaca kalo 'smi loka-ksaya-krt pravrddho lokan samahartum iha pravrttah rte 'pi tvam na bhavisyanti sarve ye 'vasthitah pratyanikesu yodhah"
"The Blessed Lord said: Time I am, destroyer of the worlds, and I have come to engage all people. With the exception of the Pandavas, all the soldiers here on both sides will be slain."
The razor chips my skin. Blood pours out of the cut, forming a rivulet streaming down my face. I scramble to staunch the wound, but to no avail. The stream continues flowing, trickling down to my chin, like a dark red tear after making the treacherous trek to the bottom of my face. A wound has been opened, destruction and havoc has arrived.
A scar is formed.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
In the 18 years that I've been on Earth, shaving has been a significant and irreplaceable part of my life. Every trauma that I've gone through in the past five years, my hair has played some part of my recovery. Bad breakup? Grow out my beard. Burnout? Maybe shave. Feeling better and wanna move out of a phase? Maybe cut my hair a little shorter.
And so, I subconsciously started to make shaving a ritual. I started viewing it as a sort of paradigm shift, that whenever I was ready to move on, I would shave, and I would do so with the utmost care and artistry. My trimmer would be my scalpel, my razor my forceps, and my face my surgical artistry.
My beard became a physical shell, shielding me from the cruelty of the world, while fostering cruelty within myself. With my beard, I would find myself more cruel, bitter, and sad, but not because I wanted to be that way; to form the other, emotional half of the shell protecting me from all the sorrow that the world would bring to me. I was fueled by vengeance, rage, and hatred; this is the way the world had treated me, so it was time for the favor to be returned. It was time for debts to be collected on, and for me to find and eventually get my pound of flesh, even if it meant carving it out of my enemies with my own hands.
On the other hand, a clean face was a sign of moving on. It was an actualization of the self, owning the scars of my past and a readiness to confront whatever the future might hold. I was ready to move on, and my face would show that. As long as it might have taken, I had come to terms with what happened, and I was ready. The pair of velvet curtains in my soul had fallen out of repair for being closed for so long. By shaving I swept them open, and let the light flood through. It would illuminate the cracks in the floor, the chipped paint in the walls, and the dust floating through the air, but I would be okay with it.
And in between these two phases was this mundane activity that came to hold profound importance for me. Shaving become a part of my identity. Ask any of my friends, and they'll tell you that I talk way too much about it, but none of them will know why. Well, this is the reason.
Shaving, to me, is coping.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"matra-sparsas tu kaunteya sitosna-sukha-duhkha-dah agamapayino 'nityas tams titiksasva bharata"
"O Arjuna, the nonpermanent appearance of happiness and distress, and their disappearance in due course, are like the appearance and disappearance of winter and summer seasons. They arise from sense perception, O scion of Bharata, and one must learn to tolerate them without being disturbed."
The aftershave burns my skin as I apply it, showing that the purification was complete. The ritual is now over; a new self has emerged. For Shakespeare was right, the winter of our discontent has been made glorious, but not by the son of York, but by a new season in my soul.
The bees slowly return from the hives, flocking in droves to the buds that survived the cold. Rabbits scamper away from their dens back into nature. Flowers have bloomed where there once was rot, ponds have formed where there once was wretched, chilling ice.
It's spring again.
And so, I subconsciously started to make shaving a ritual. I started viewing it as a sort of paradigm shift, that whenever I was ready to move on, I would shave, and I would do so with the utmost care and artistry. My trimmer would be my scalpel, my razor my forceps, and my face my surgical artistry.
My beard became a physical shell, shielding me from the cruelty of the world, while fostering cruelty within myself. With my beard, I would find myself more cruel, bitter, and sad, but not because I wanted to be that way; to form the other, emotional half of the shell protecting me from all the sorrow that the world would bring to me. I was fueled by vengeance, rage, and hatred; this is the way the world had treated me, so it was time for the favor to be returned. It was time for debts to be collected on, and for me to find and eventually get my pound of flesh, even if it meant carving it out of my enemies with my own hands.
On the other hand, a clean face was a sign of moving on. It was an actualization of the self, owning the scars of my past and a readiness to confront whatever the future might hold. I was ready to move on, and my face would show that. As long as it might have taken, I had come to terms with what happened, and I was ready. The pair of velvet curtains in my soul had fallen out of repair for being closed for so long. By shaving I swept them open, and let the light flood through. It would illuminate the cracks in the floor, the chipped paint in the walls, and the dust floating through the air, but I would be okay with it.
And in between these two phases was this mundane activity that came to hold profound importance for me. Shaving become a part of my identity. Ask any of my friends, and they'll tell you that I talk way too much about it, but none of them will know why. Well, this is the reason.
Shaving, to me, is coping.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"matra-sparsas tu kaunteya sitosna-sukha-duhkha-dah agamapayino 'nityas tams titiksasva bharata"
"O Arjuna, the nonpermanent appearance of happiness and distress, and their disappearance in due course, are like the appearance and disappearance of winter and summer seasons. They arise from sense perception, O scion of Bharata, and one must learn to tolerate them without being disturbed."
The aftershave burns my skin as I apply it, showing that the purification was complete. The ritual is now over; a new self has emerged. For Shakespeare was right, the winter of our discontent has been made glorious, but not by the son of York, but by a new season in my soul.
The bees slowly return from the hives, flocking in droves to the buds that survived the cold. Rabbits scamper away from their dens back into nature. Flowers have bloomed where there once was rot, ponds have formed where there once was wretched, chilling ice.
It's spring again.
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