My most recent haircut was in New York City. I went in by myself and ducked into the basement of the huge Astor Place Hairstylist like I was trying to lose a tail. I was ushered to the nearest open hairdresser, where I squeaked onto the red vinyl chair and pulled up a picture on my phone of some celebrity with a below-the-ear bob. All this was done with minimal talking. It felt oddly like committing a crime.

Lucia, the woman with scissors behind me, tied my hair into a ponytail and hacked at the stem, above the tie. I picked at the corners of my fingernails as Lucia chopped away with one ear-bud dangling out of her ear. When my ponytail was freed from my head, she dropped it into my palm and shook her hand to get rid of the strands still clinging to her fingers. Then she laughed and pulled her phone out of her pocket to take a picture of my clump of hair.

The rest of the haircut was like an impersonal hook-up. We didn’t talk. We didn’t touch any more than what was absolutely necessary. I’d never before had a hair-cutting experience in which the hairdresser did not comment on my unique color (red). Never before had a hair specialist declined to joke with me about bottling the color and making a fortune off the sale. This was a new experience. For once, my beautiful hair was just a job.

Fitting, I thought, looking at my hair laying on top of the plastic drape Lucia had tied around my neck. It looked like a dead ferret and it was hard to imagine that the pathetic curl had ever been attached to my skull. I felt a grim satisfaction seeing it disembodied and sad.

I should say that I attach an abnormal amount of significance to my hair. It is red, and my name is Ginger, despite the byline. Ginger is what my friends and family call me and have called me since I was born. I’m unforgettable if only because I’m a caricature.

But I love my hair. I really do. When it was long, it cascaded over my shoulders, and I could flip the part over one ear so that it looked casual and sophisticated in an intelligent way. I love that it gets brighter in the summer, and that people used to compliment me on how silky it looked if I happened to forgo shampoo for three days. It was the kind of hair I could neglect, mess up into a wad at the back of my head, put a clip on one side, and still have people tell me how lucky I was to have beautiful red hair.

With hair as loud as that, imagine its amplification when paired with a name like Ginger. I’ve never had the experience of someone forgetting my name. I complain about the injustice of having people mention “South Park” or “As Told By Ginger” when I introduce myself. I rant about the state of my identity in relation to my hair and how much I hate and love my name. But the truth is I wrote my college essay about my hair. It’s loud and unique and fraught with angst. It’s easy to hide behind something like that.

Haircuts used to mean long evenings spent holding my head steady in my mom’s bathroom as her scissors chopped a severe line just above my shoulders. When she was done she’d puff baby powder onto the back of my neck and pronounce me groomed enough to go to bed. It wasn’t until years later that we went to a professional hair cutter and discovered the extra inch of hair on one side of my head. Who knows how long I’d been walking around uneven. After that I only went to hair stylists. No more sitting on mom’s toilet seat and clenching my eyes shut against the bothersome loose ends.

So here I was with Lucia, who had now moved onto styling the remaining hair on my head. I wish barber shops didn’t have mirrors right in front of customers. My least favorite part of haircuts is looking in the mirror at my face bordered by the straight, dripping curtains of hair. I imagine most people are alarmed by seeing themselves in this state. My face in that mirror looked too big, too pale, too bland. I miss the toilet-seat haircuts, however choppy the result.

I’d like to say that this haircut was a way to redefine myself, that it was some sort of declaration. But that’s not true. I cut it off as an apology, and I guess I’m writing this piece as an apology too.

Hey everyone: I’m sorry for how easy it is to remember my name. I’m sorry that my hair is so loud. I’m sorry it’s so easy to change. I’m sorry that I have an excuse to be angry when anyone laughs at my name. I’m sorry I’ve made people uncomfortable by insisting on using my nickname and not my byline. I don’t know why I do that. I’m sorry that it’s so easy to make a metaphor out of my haircutting experience. I’m sorry I’m still writing about my hair. I will probably always write about my hair.

Lucia cursed behind me and brought her finger to her mouth.

“What happened?” I asked. She showed me her index finger. There was a gash along the side where she’d cut herself. There was blood on her scissors and blood on the cloth pockets tied to her hip.

“I’m sorry,” I said to her, unsure whether I should take off my drape and find her a Band-aid or let her handle the situation herself. She sucked on her finger again and I continued to sit uselessly with my short hair dripping water onto my neck. “I’m sorry.”

—Virginia R. Marshall '15 is an English concentrator in Dunster House. She wants you to know that she's more than just a head of hair.