Since second grade I have donated my hair approximately once every two to three years. The first time I donated, I felt so amazingly uncomfortable that instead of having to explain my short hair to everyone at my church I asked the choir teacher if I could announce it to everyone before we sang. People kept commenting on how nice I was to donate my hair and I felt proud of what I had done.
The second time, in fifth grade, a librarian at my elementary school made me read a book about a girl who tried to hide the fact that she was losing her hair after being treated for cancer.
The third time I donated was at the end of seventh grade right before my father’s wedding and ended up having spiked hair which eventually turned to a very bad hair year with helmet hair.
The fourth time I waited until my junior year of high school where I finally ended up with a decent hair cut after donating.
Today I got tired of my long hair and had my mother chop it off. It was once again, “barely legal.” Locks of Love requires 10″ for a donation and as usual I was too impatient for it to be longer than the minimum. My hair ended up being “interesting,” if one were to be polite about it, but my mother took me to a salon where they did their best to make it presentable. At least in Montana I wear a hat all the time to stay warm; unexpected perks of cold weather.
What is strange is that I don’t find the donation of my hair to be a special event anymore. I think it is nice that I do it but at this point it is closer to a tradition or a habit then a true act of charity but I am sure that to the person that can get a real hair wig, they will appreciate it non the less and that makes me happy.