My own hair has been a growing collection for almost two years now. When I cut it myself, I keep it perfunctorily, but what truly captures me is the collection of strands: from my brush, from washing it, from my hair ties, sometimes when I sweep the floor I gather the strands and remove the dust fritz and my friend's hair, I have to be feeling a bit obsessive for that process though. Even so the pile grows achingly slow. My brother-in-law has playfully called my loose strands Err-hairs ever since he was a kid, being a 10 year old in a house of crew-cut boys, it may have seemed my very body was taking over his space. My younger brother shivers a little bit as the pile grows, a result of watching Eraserhead I believe, but for me it is fascination, hair plays an important role as an undercurrent of civilization: myth, stories, history and science. Hair is dna, power (Samson), youth, a reminder of death, grows beyond death, and releases itself from the body strand by strand breadcrumbs to where you have existed. I think about the movie Gattaca where Vincent, the main character struggles against his own body's dna, evidence which marks him as an In-Valid in his culture, Rapunzel's freedom and desirability, some Orthodox Jewish wives wear wigs of other women's hair to hide their own hair and thus their sexuality.
I have always wished I was born with true red hair with my freckles, but for whatever reason I am too attached to my own color to dye it. The above photo is tricky and makes it more red than it is, the photo below is closer to reality.
