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If my hair could talk, it would tell you story after story about how its life was cut short time and time again by a hairdresser wielding a pair of sharp scissors.

It would spin tales about all the various hairstyles I’ve had throughout the years and the people who have influenced it in one way or another. Just thinking about all the horrors my hair has endured makes it curl on end.

The story would begin somewhere around the time of my first haircut, which resulted in an envelope kept for years in my mother’s hope chest. That fine light baby hair was a marvel to look at. It was so innocent and precious, unaware that this was just the beginning of the torturous relationship I would have with what grew in its place in the future.

My hair would tell the story about how my mother always encouraged me to have shorter hair only to find me fighting against it. As a child, I always thought having short hair — especially short hair parted on the side — would cause people to think I looked like a boy. I know now my mom was just trying to find a cute, easy style for me to care for, but I just seemed to like longer locks better than short ones.

One of the few times that I enjoyed shorter hair was probably right after the Winter Olympics of 1976. Dorothy Hamill inspired many to get a look-alike hairdo, including me — at my mom’s encouragement, of course. It seemed to work out well since this was also the same time that I started swimming a lot in the summer. Short hair and summertime just seem to go together when you are 10 or 11.

Eventually, the call of the hairclips, ponytail holders and headbands got the best of me, and I wanted longer hair again so that I could style it before going to school each day. My hair probably remembers the early mornings of curling irons, hot rollers and lots of tears and frustration when the strands just wouldn’t cooperate.

My mom started giving my sister a permanent when I was a teenager, and somehow I was pulled into the fray of those tiny rollers and smelly tubes of cold solution. My head hurts just thinking about the smell. At first my mom just would give me a perm on my bangs. Later the perms included my whole head.

Each time I got a permanent, it was at least a week or two before the frizz calmed down enough where it looked OK again. A few months later, it was time for a cut and to repeat the process again; it was an endless cycle for many years into adulthood before the whole practice ceased. I am happy that big-hair stage eventually ran its course and burned itself out.

Anymore, the story my hair tells is of how I am mainly a low-maintenance kind of girl at this point in my life. Motherhood had a way of teaching me that I had better things to do with my time than spend endless hours in front of the mirror curling my hair.

I wash, dry and clip my simple undercut hairstyle; mindful of the funky ends that like to go their own way most of the time. Even bangs, which I usually trimmed myself in between cuts, are too much bother anymore, which is why I grew them out a few years ago.

Today my hair would tell the story of simplicity and how at peace we are with one another as long as it is not time for me to get a trim. I still do not like to get haircuts, even after all these years. Too many times of having it cut too short or trying something new have made me tentative about having to once more explain the relationship I have with my hair.

My hair would tell this story in each and every word, except it keeps getting cut off and swept away by a hairdresser’s broom. Fortunately, I have learned whatever happens to my hair, it will grow back, ready for another try in a few months when I am brave enough to say, “Yes, I am here for a haircut once again.”

Linda Vestal is a wife, mother, daughter, sister and friend living in Gibsonville. Contact her with comments or story ideas at lindavestal @triad.rr.com.