The Haircut - A story about self-worth, safety, and saying yes to being bold.
Some stories start with fire.
Ours began with grilled Picanha, homemade Naranjadas, and the kind of quiet trust that only shows up when you’re surrounded by people who feel like home—even if you’ve just met them.
It was one of those nights that doesn’t ask for anything, yet somehow offers everything: warmth, presence, and space to let your guard down.
That the story would end with the same fire—I didn’t see that coming.
A few hours later, I was standing there, burning my freshly cut hair in those same glowing embers. Cut by Riawna Capri.
But this wasn’t just a fancy haircut.
It was a healing session in disguise.
Reading time: 11 Min
I. The Setup
It was our last night together—me, my best friend Birgit, and her new partner Vito—gathered around a backyard fire, where I learned to grill Picanha the Argentinian way. Vito, a 31-year-old Argentinian, walked barefoot around the firepit, completely immersed in his mission of building the perfect fire. While Birgit was upstairs in the kitchen preparing Naranjadas and Limonadas, I stayed by the fire—asking Vito tons of questions, trying to absorb every detail.
I live with GNE Myopathy, a rare genetic disorder that causes muscle degeneration. Since the onset of the mutation, I’ve had to manage my energy more carefully. I sit more than most people do. And far more than I used to.
I used to be the one in the kitchen—cooking, cleaning, constantly moving, trying to take care of everyone around me. But if I were still doing that, I’d end up in bed with muscle pain and wake up exhausted the next day.
So GNE forces me to slow down and use my energy wisely. A part of me still felt a little guilty just sitting there while everyone else was busy doing something—for me!
But I’m learning to appreciate my friends instead of slipping into self-pity. So I let my guilt pass, asked Vito even more questions, and felt grateful for the chance to learn and be surrounded by truly amazing individuals.
Vito threw some chicken on the grill while the potatoes and vegetables in aluminum foil cooked in the glowing coals. He held his hand above the grill, counted: “One, two, three, four, five—perfect,” he said, and placed a big piece of Picanha over the embers.
As the sun went down and Birgit sat beside me, sipping her Naranjada, with Vito still busy around the firepit, I felt unusually calm. My body was warm, deeply relaxed. I felt peaceful. Happy, even. For me, that could’ve been the end of the story.
But the night had other plans. Ready for the plot twist?
As the stars started to appear in the sky, two more of Vito’s friends arrived:
Riawna and Morgan—a couple from LA.
To be honest - I felt a bit nervous meeting them.
I had been living off-grid, and I couldn’t remember the last time I met new people.
I felt like I’d lost my spark and was afraid I wouldn’t have much to offer.
But my worries turned out to be unnecessary. We had eaten well, talked, laughed, and started to wind down.
Barriga llena, corazón contento, as a Mexican would say.
II. The Compliment
When I returned from the bathroom and loosened the tight bun on my head, Riawna looked at me with wide eyes:
“Wow, your hair is beautiful!”
I shrank, looked down, and said,
“Yes, it’s pretty long—but super dry and frizzy,”
trying to tuck myself back into the comfort of being nothing special—just to calm my nerves.
She didn’t pay much attention to my deflection and started a loving mantra of compliments, telling me again and again how beautiful my hair was.
Oh, did I mention this was Riawna Capri? Celebrity hairstylist and co-founder of the LA-based salon Nine Zero One.
Hearing that from her made me want to vaporize into the air. I already struggle to accept compliments—now a celebrity hairstylist was telling me my hair was beautiful? My body wanted to run, to disappear. But somewhere in between, my six-year-old self stood still—quietly yearning to hear precisely that.
She was like a gentle rainstorm that just wouldn’t stop—soft, warm, and full of awe for my hair.
My mind deflected—”Americans overdo it,” I told myself.
"It’s a culture thing. She doesn’t mean it like that. Don’t let this feeling settle in, Lisa. Don’t get ahead of yourself."
And just when I thought I couldn’t take more, her partner Morgan joined in—compliment-showers from both of them.
By then, I wanted to slide off my chair and hide under the table.
It felt like I couldn’t take it. I didn’t know what to say. The fear of coming across as arrogant or full of myself has lived in me for as long as I can remember. So when someone compliments me, I deflect. I shrink. I scramble for an explanation that removes me from the credit. I make it luck, genetics, coincidence—anything but me.
“Oh, you have beautiful hair.”
– “Yes, that’s just genetics.”
“Oh, your Spanish is so good.”
– “Ah no, it could be better, considering how long I’ve lived here.”
“Your dog listens so well.”
– “I’m just lucky to have her, she’s amazing.”
Never once do I just say,
“Thank you. I appreciate you noticing. I try my best.”
But this time, they both kept going. And going. And going.
It would’ve been strange—almost rude—to keep insisting they were wrong. Their praise was so genuine, so honest, that denying it would’ve felt ungrateful and unkind. And I didn’t want to be that, either.
So I finally said thank you.
And as those words crossed my lips, and I let myself believe—just for a moment—that maybe something about me really was beautiful, I started shaking.
Literally trembling. Because deep down, I had longed to feel exactly that—beautiful.
My throat tightened. Time slowed. I felt transparent.
Raw. Vulnerable.
Riawna opened a space of safety and softness between us, and I began to trust her as she asked more questions about my relationship with my hair.
“Do you ever wear your hair down?” she asked.
“Do you like how it looks?”
“I love my hair,” I told her.
“But not how it looks. I usually keep it in a bun or braid. Somehow, I just can't bring myself to cut it.”
She asked why.
I paused—and then I shared something I rarely tell anyone, because it usually isn’t taken seriously:
“I have nightmares. Recurring dreams where I wake up in the middle of the night with a heavy stomach and panic in my chest—because someone took scissors and chopped off my long ponytail.”
My rational mind gets it—it’s just hair. It grows back. It shouldn’t matter that much. But then Riawna said something that landed deeply:
“Hair, in so many cultures and inner images, represents strength, beauty, and autonomy. Having it cut without consent—especially in a dream that hits like a blow to the gut—can feel like a violation. A symbolic echo of something deeper. Maybe not a conscious memory, but perhaps an emotional imprint from a time when your boundaries were crossed.”
And she was right.
It wasn’t just about the hair.
It was about my self-worth.
About boundaries that had been crossed—subtly, repeatedly, maybe even violently.
A few childhood memories floated to the surface.
Faint. Fragmented. But charged.
So yes—
It is a big deal to me.
Riawna nodded, compassionately and curiously. Nothing about me felt like too much to her. She explained how hair holds energy—and how cutting some off can actually be releasing.
She smiled and said,
“Your hair is like a blank canvas. I’d love to make art with it.”
And somehow, I began to trust her.
III. The Invitation
Then she looked at me with those big, clear eyes, full of respect and admiration, and asked,
“May I cut your hair?”
It might sound dramatic—but honestly, it felt like a proposal. Not the casual kind either. The get-down-on-one-knee, cue-the-music, everyone-holds-their-breath kind. The only thing missing was someone playing Clair de Lune on the violin. And maybe a confetti cannon.
My friends were seated around me like wedding guests at a sacred ceremony—eyes glassy, hands clasped, silently cheering me on. No one said a word—they didn’t have to. Their presence was a kind of emotional surround sound.
And when I finally nodded and said yes, they applauded.
Not for the cut.
But for taking the leap.
IV. The Cut
The whole situation was anything but planned—completely absurd, really. I mean, how did I, living off-grid in the remote Oaxaca mountains, having barely talked to anyone new in years, end up here? Sitting at a table with one of the most famous hair artists in the world? And Im doubting to go for it. I mean, what the actual f*ck? Don’t tell me this isn’t the most random thing ever.
It was dark. The terrace where we’d eaten was lit only by a few cheap Mexican Christmas string lights and scattered candles. So we improvised. Vito tied a standing lamp to the ceiling beam with a long cable dangling down. Someone passed around a headlamp. Birgit and Morgan made tea for everyone. Suddenly, we were all involved—like we were staging a makeshift play. It felt part-comic, part-sacred.
And there I was, sitting on a garden chair, shaking and almost crying.
Riawna had all her tools with her—she didn’t seem like someone who traveled without them. The scissors in her hand looked like her sixth finger. She draped a cape over me, and we positioned a bathroom mirror carefully onto the dining table in front of me. Then, gently, she placed the scissors in my hand.
“You make the first cut,” she said confidently.
That cut took me five full minutes. I was shaking, shivering, eyes tearing up. I wanted to do it—but I also didn’t. I wasn’t sure what I wanted at all. I realized I wasn’t sure about anything in my life - and I surely didnt like that. This or that? Go or stay? What if I choose wrong? Can I handle it?
This frozen, indecisive state—it wasn’t new to me. It was the landscape of my fear. I threw in some nervous laughter, joked about my recurring nightmares—someone chopping off my ponytail—but inside, I was spiraling. The fear spread like wildfire. My body was visibly trembling. And so my mind fell back on my most-used strategy: Just play it safe.
Keep things as they are. They may be uncomfortable, but at least they’re familiar.
I wanted to be sure I’d love it. I wanted to be sure I could handle it if I didn’t. But I couldn’t. There was no sure thing—not about this haircut, and not about anything.
Then I looked into my own eyes in the mirror, holding those scissors like they weighed a hundred pounds. And a voice inside me began to speak:
“I love you, Lisa. I love how you take care of things. I love your presence and persistence and consistency. You do such a great job—not just with yourself, but with your dogs, your friends, your family, your work. You show up when it matters.
And that won’t change.
Cutting your hair won’t change the way you love and care. You can dare to make the most out of this wild, amazing opportunity. You can trust yourself. Whatever happens— I’ve got you.
This isn’t about your hairstyle. This is about trusting your gut. And if it fails—I'm right here with you. This is the lesson.
The hairstyle will fade. But the leap into the unknown? That will stay with you.
I have your back. Always.
You’re safe.”
And there we go: Chip chip—one side was gone.
„Mhm, yes. Good“, Riawna said in her soft voice.
Chip chip the other side was cut. “There you go, great job.”
And then she started cutting. We didn’t speak much after that, because I could feel her heart in mine. She was so present with me and my energy, that I felt with every cut she did, she cut with compassion and extreme attunement.
I was her center of attention, she felt my deep fear, and not for once she got offended by that, she was so lovingly allowing me to be afraid, she seemed to really see me, she saw that this haircut isn’t just about the end product, she guided me through my trembling fear, like Peter Levine in one of his somatic healing sessions.
And even though it may seem she cut with her hands, she didn’t. She cut with her heart. As she was cutting she was making that approving sound,
“mhm, mhm, mhh, mhm, mhm”
– she mhmm’d in a low short vibration grounding me into the chair.
“mhm, mhm, mhh, mhm, mhm”… “mhm, mhm, mhh, mhm, mhm”
Her big eyes looked at me like I always yearned someone to look at me. With so much love and respect and trust that I will get to the other side with her – safely.
V. After the Cut
After the cut, I don’t need to tell you the haircut looked amazing.
I mean—what else would you expect?
But this wasn’t about how I looked afterward.
She didn’t just give me a new hairstyle.
She opened a space—for something much deeper to unfold.
Sure, she cuts other people’s hair and sends them home feeling fabulous. But what she did for me that night? That can’t be planned or paid for.
This wasn’t about hair.
It was about the universe conspiring to bring together two people who never should’ve crossed paths.
We met in Mexico—around a bonfire, eating, sharing stories from completely different lives. And a woman who, somehow, knew how to speak to my fear.
She embraced me. Loved me. Made me feel safe, seen, and appreciated. That’s what gave me the courage to trust her.
Afterward, I felt light. Calm. Grounded.
Not the kind of joy that explodes—but the kind that sinks into your bones. A quiet sense of acceptance. It softened my heart and spread through my body. I anchored.
And just to keep the drama alive—yes, I burned my hair in the firepit.
Don’t worry, it wasn’t a meltdown moment.
It was intentional. Ritualistic. Slightly witchy. Very me.
It was my way of saying:
“Thanks for showing up, Lisa. Now let’s release some old shit.”
As the strands disappeared into the fire, I felt a wave of gratitude toward myself. Something I’d been carrying for far too long finally began to let go.
I shed one last tear when I felt my best friend, Birgit, step beside me.
She wrapped her arm around me.
We stood there quietly, both facing the fire.
“You did great,” she whispered.
“I’m proud of you.”
That’s when the chapter closed.
It felt complete.
VI. The Leap
It was never just about the haircut.
It was about meeting my upper limit—
Recognizing the fear, the longing to feel beautiful,
and the false belief that I shouldn’t.
This was one of those rare moments we grow into our greatness.
Not just by tolerating pain—
but by daring to feel beautiful.
We’re taught how to sit with grief, with fear, with loss.
But what about beauty?
What about confidence, love, lightness?
The real stretch isn’t just staying with the hard things.
It’s allowing in the good.
It’s sitting with what you secretly hope is true about yourself:
That you are beautiful.
Worthy.
Enough.
That’s the real work.
Letting those feelings fill you.
Not shrinking back.
Letting them expand your heart.
That’s when you break free.
I write about everyday leaps—through joy, grief, and the quiet in between.
Because yes, growth lives in the small things.
Even something as simple as a haircut.
If this story touched something in you, I’d love to hear from you.
Reach out—or share it with someone who might need a gentle nudge toward their own leap.
Always with courage,
Lisa
