Never Meant to Be Tamed: A Love Letter to My Hair

"There once was a girl who had a little curl

Right in the middle of her forehead.

And when she was good, she was very, very good,

But when she was bad, she was horrid."

My mother used to recite that to me while trying to wrestle a brush through the wild weather system attached to my head.

As with other cringe-y old nursery rhymes, I realize that “horrid” never meant bad or evil. It meant un-tamable. Too much. Too alive. Uncontainable in eras past that rewarded girls for being quiet, polite, manageable.

Which is funny, because my hair and I have spent our whole lives trying to come to terms with each other in a mythic power struggle.

I spent decades trying to flatten it, tame it, humidify it into submission, apologize for it, straighten it into something more civilized. Less “freakish.” Less loud. Less me. And yet…

My hair has also been my sensuality. My armor. My drama. My rebellion. My strength. My freedom. My magic.

It's the feeling of fierce ocean wind through sand-sprinkled, salt-tangled curls. The primal pleasure of feeling it down my bare back. The glory of it blowing furiously around my face on the road with car windows down in rain, shine, snow, or gale.

The tickle of it against a lover’s skin. The way it took up space before I even spoke.

And when I lost it the first time, I made all the noble promises. I did the bargaining with G-d.

"I'll never complain about my hair again! I'll just be grateful if it comes back." I was grateful. And I still complained.

It did come back. Excruciatingly slowly. Strangely. Thinly. Pointing in every possible direction like it had its own opinions about things.

And somewhere in those years of awkward regrowth, I understood something at the literal root level:

My hair never needed taming. Because I wasn’t built for taming.

I’m the 4-year-old who got tired of waiting for mom to finish feeding my newborn brother, so I climbed onto the counter and made myself scrambled eggs on a gas stove (quintessentially feral Gen-X though, right?!)

I’m the nocturnal heretic who flips off the idea that all of humanity should live by the same Foucault-ian prison clock. The same productivity schedule. The same acceptable hunger clock. The same approved exhaustion. The same sanctioned times and places to rest, work, love, learn, or fuck.

I’m the peace and harmony-loving healer who loves the feel of a revolver in her hand.

I’m the blind dater who heard, “Why would I ever want to live anywhere but here?” from some nice and not-so-nice guys and knew instantly there would be no second date.

I’m the participatory action research nerd who studied and lived in war zones because I trust human connection and lived experience more than fear.

I'm the gringa who got married for the first time on dirt floors en el complejo municipal de San Juan de Lurigancho, Lima, Peru - armed guards outside, lavender chiffon dress floating around my knees, magnificent matching platform sandals sparkling in the dust.

I'm the almost-40-year-old who walked away from the respectable acronym life and moved to another country with no job, little language, no safety net, and a marriage that had wrecked my self-esteem. AND... with enough faith in the sea, ancient rhythms, the spirit of my ancestors, and my own alchemy skills to strike the match... that burnt down the barn... so that I could see the moon again.

I'm the soulmate who married again at 51, eloping barefoot at the 45th Parallel, in the most glittery, purple, faerie-unicorn-princess dress imaginable because authenticity is holier than respectability.

I'm the pre-teen who instantly recognized herself in Neil Peart’s transcendent Tom Sawyer lyrics. Even then, I knew that

“The world is, the world is

Love and life are deep

Maybe as his skies are wide”

Though for her, there was no uncertainty in it. Only recognition. The same recognition that understood, even then, that “changes aren’t permanent, but change is.”

So maybe my hair always knew even before I did.

Maybe every frizzy halo, every impossible tangle, every chaotic curl, every act of atmospheric rebellion - was telling the truth long before I learned how to say it aloud.

And now here we are again. Today is chemo infusion #2 and the scientific, pharmacological reality is that my hair is already hanging off a cliff, hovering over the abyss.

I thought I'd have a few more weeks, but it's already giving way like the terrifying crack of a rockslide overhead, when a few stones break free and you realize the whole mountainside is about to come roaring down. Last time it took four months. This time... four days.

If I’m being deeply honest, I hate this. I hate that I’m losing my hair again. I hate knowing how long regrowth can take, and that it may return altered, thinner, quieter - a shadow of itself. Like last time.

And I refuse to pretend it doesn’t matter.

Please spare me the "It'll grow back..." platitudes, especially if toxic chemicals haven't wreaked havoc on your body that's fighting for its very existence.

It doesn't matter what your sister's co-worker's nephew's daughter-in-law's teacher's psychic's aunt did or how they handled it.

This hair has been with me through oceans, revolutions, grief, lust, airports, wars, miracles, reinventions, illnesses, love stories, and identities.

It gets to matter. I get to mourn it. AND...

There's another truth fluttering around me like butterflies of synchronicity. It keeps coming up in a quote everywhere I turn the past few weeks:

"When nothing is certain, everything is possible."

THAT has always been the story of my alchemical life.

And maybe the story of my hair, too. Neither of us was ever meant to behave. So if this is another shedding, another undoing, another wild and sacred molting before transforming, then let it be honest.

Let it be devastating. Let it be liberating. Let it strip me down to whatever remains when even the symbols of myself fall away.

Because underneath every version of me, I am still the same wild thing.

And so, my darling hair, here's to you. Thank you for every storm. Every adventure. Every fear. Every joy. Every survival. Every miracle.

May healthy new roots form deeply and rise again. And may life continue to bloom through me in ways I cannot yet imagine.

Here’s to our next wild incarnation.

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Jennifer Dolinka, M.S., is a Certified Hypnotist, trained conflict analyst, and creator of the Clear Calm Confident™ method. After years working internationally in complex organizational environments, she now supports clients around the world in navigating something even more fundamental: the inner conflicts that keep them stuck.

Jennifer helps self-aware, capable humans release anxiety and self-doubt, shift limiting beliefs, ease stress and discomfort, and reconnect with their own clarity and inner wisdom. She specializes in supporting professionals, students, and survivors who are ready to move from overwhelm to grounded confidence.

Her work blends science-informed hypnotherapy, experience-based insight, and a deep respect for the mind–body connection. Above all, Jennifer’s approach is collaborative and empowering – helping clients change patterns at the root so life can move forward with greater ease and self-trust.

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