At the three-month mark of the road trip, while in Slab City, an off-grid alternative lifestyle community, I met a nomadic woman. Her eyes, tanned skin, and lack of hair enchanted me. If she can do it, why can’t I, I thought. This young person’s ownership of her near-bald scalp inspired me and created the next step of the journey: letting go of my attachment to my hair.
Initially, I ignore my belly’s grumble. Yet, with the sun still hanging in the sky, I know the hours ahead will get uncomfortable without food. I’ll make one more hike in and out and drive to find food to have a satisfied tummy on my first night tenting it.
On a Sunday, I find the only open hair salon in a small Texas town—and it’s a barber. I have video proof of the large handlebar mustached man donning a black apron asking, “Are you sure now?” in a southern twang, with four of his buddies nearby at a rectangular-shaped card table comparing rifles. In the video, you’ll see me smiling without concern as the buzzer turns on, knowing that going hairless is precisely the ‘do I want.
The word “town” is a generous term for where I find food. On a street front less developed than horse and buggy days, I park my pristinely white Scion-TC fit with a racing sticker and low profile tires in front of boarded-up businesses, having to glance twice at one non-descript building with a “We’re Open” sign.
A shaved head strips me of something. Of conventional beauty, of maintenance, of a warm blanket of protection? At a diner in Alabama, a middle-aged waitress will linger after taking my order and say, “I hope you don’t mind me saying so, but you are absolutely gorgeous.”
With a flat hand, I press the screened wooden door, groaning for WD-40, then survey the building’s interior. It’s hit harder than the Great Depression. My eyes fall on a woman seated on a bar stool behind the counter, and I am happy to see someone. Initially, anyway. With my presence ignored, I circle the narrow, table-length aisle and pick up a box of stuffing next to a can of cranberry sauce while feigning interest. I set it back down and am back at the entrance in a few steps.
In the deafening silence and awkward feelings, there’s an image of me retreating to the safety of my driver’s seat. But the pain in my stomach won’t allow it, so I stop at the can of Campbell’s tomato soup. Picking it up, I twist to the printed lime green price tag, $1.70. I hold it, glance at the shelves whose inventory I know by heart, and then grip it with the fullness of my hand before taking the few short steps to the counter.
The woman’s neatly trimmed index finger presses in three digits; without any further movement, no different than a robotic animatronic, she returns to her default position on the stool. I pull two bills out of my purse and set them on the counter next to the can. The sun shines through a dusty nearby window as she punches three more numbers and another button, then waits. The till opens and after sliding in the bills, grabs two coins. Then, a two-inch white strip of paper unfurls; she tears it and places it next to my can. I look at her for another beat, and when she doesn’t react, I grab the can, change, and leave.
Going On 40 
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