The Times Magazine 9SPINAL COLUMN
MELANIE REID
obody knows what I’m
about to do, I thought,
looking at myself in the
mirror. Nobody can stop
me. I’m going to do this
on my terms. It’s my
body, my hair, my home,
and I’m a free woman
answerable to no one.
And besides, I’m desperate.
And so I wedged the scissors where I could
trust them most – right thumb and knuckle
of my middle finger – tilted my head, reached
round behind my neck so I could feel the steel
resting at the hairline, and started hacking.
Cut it from under, like clipping a sheep,
I told myself. Chopping, reckless, eager: layers
of curls peeling off to the sweet, sweet snip
of the blades. For I while I didn’t seem to be
getting anywhere. Can anyone possibly have
this much hair?
It was a genuinely exhilarating moment.
Perhaps you will only understand if you’ve
been in a wheelchair for a long time, because
it’s a life sentence of a kind. Mostly I have
accepted my dependency, but sometimes my
frustration at my lack of physical agency, the
inability to look after myself, builds up like a
pressure cooker.
If you’re not disabled, getting a haircut
is the easiest thing in the world, I dimly
remember. But if you’re in a chair, it’s really
problematic. You need parking, access, space
to manoeuvre around the washbasins, andunderstanding staff – a rare combination. After
several years, I’d got it sorted: found a place
that worked, with a terrific stylist.
But two things happened. First came
lockdown, during which time my hair grew
many inches, darker and frumpy. Then six
months ago I changed my car for the van,
which I drive from my power chair. This has
big implications for haircuts.
In my hairdresser’s part of town there’s
nowhere to park a van so that the rear door,
with the lift, is unobstructed. If I were blocked
in, someone would have to uncouple the
passenger seat, slot it behind the steering
wheel and move the van. Only Doug can
do that. Besides, going to the hairdresser
is supposed to be relaxing. Worrying about
not getting back in my vehicle would be as
relaxing as tooth extraction.
Sometimes you can think yourself to a
standstill. Maybe I could train up a practical
friend to move the passenger seat, but it’s
tricky. Then I’d need a ramp for the step into
the salon – you can’t manhandle power chairs- and could I fit beside the washbasins? I
turned over all the permutations in my head
and every day came to the same conclusion:
there was no easy, discreet, fuss-free solution.
Could I find a friend with a car the right
height for me to get into and boot big enough
for my manual chair? Too great an imposition.
I made half-hearted attempts to get a local
hairdresser to visit but deep down I couldn’t
face the hassle, the explaining, the intimacy.
The problem grew out of all proportion
until it became this huge thing oppressing me.
Literally and mentally. I’ve been miserable. My
hair was shapeless and another three inches
longer, the curls at the neck bedded into a mat
you’d insulate your loft with. Wearing it loose,
I looked like Ozzy Osbourne. Tied back,
instead of making me elegant, as my mother
was, it turned me into an inhabitant of
a Victorian workhouse, inducing a crisis
of self-loathing. Long ago I gave up on
appearances, yet some deep part still aches.
The tipping point came after the hair got
so heavy, pulling at the roots, that I woke up
in the night with an intense scalp headache.
That’s when I cracked. I vowed to get up, lock
myself away and attack it myself. And if it
seems tantamount to an act of self-harm, well,
it probably was, but I was at breaking point.
So I cut it, high and slanted up the back
where the curls are, chin length at the front,
and restored a bit of fringe. Liberated enough
curls to fill the hand basin. Curls are forgiving,
I told myself. I contorted my wretched torso,
welcomed my newly minted hand strength on
the scissors and did a not too disastrous job,
leaving me feeling ten years younger and
considerably happier, a woman back in charge
of her body. I’m not totally crazy, though. I’ll
see a professional for the highlights. n@Mel_ReidTimes
Melanie Reid is tetraplegic after breaking her
MURDO MACLEOD neck and back in a riding accident in April 2010
N
‘It’s two years since
I had a haircut
and I look like
Ozzy Osbourne.
Pass me the scissors’