Name less. Move more.

During deep covid I discovered that if you pretend to be starring in a dramatic series where you know how to cut hair, you can actually do a decent job. Or at least that’s the case with my husband’s admittedly thick, dark waves. They’re pretty forgiving. I didn’t watch any YouTube videos. I didn’t consult any experts. I just picked up a pair of scissors and started channeling my best Steel Magnolias vibe.

I was so good at pretending to be a barber that it somehow stuck. I still cut my husband’s hair and both of my daughters’. I also chase after neighbors’ kids when their bangs fall into their eyes and snip, snip, snip—sometimes promising a lollipop just like the real professionals.

But when Stella, my 6-year-old, recently wanted an asymmetrical haircut, I knew I needed to phone a friend. She has bangs. I’ve never had bangs and can’t even pretend to know how to handle them with a more artsy, ambitious cut. So I made an appointment with a trained professional.

My usually gregarious daughter was suddenly completely tongue-tied when we walked into the salon in north Berkeley. I get it. I’m overwhelmed by salons, too. I have almost never gotten consistent haircuts in my entire life. When I was in my 20s, they only happened when I was home visiting my mom and she would spring for one. My 30s were a haphazard mix of things.

And finally, at 42, a reader, Ali Moss, reached out and offered me a free haircut as a token of her appreciation for my writing:

If you already have a stylist you love, I could also offer you a shampoo and blow out as a little self care treat. No pressure, but it would bring me so much joy to share my skills with you as a thank you for the important work you are doing.

Already have a stylist? Do I look like someone who already has a stylist?

I had my more discerning friends check out her work on Instagram, got the green light, and took her up on her generous offer. Ever since I’ve been happily doling out cash for a haircut every few months while chatting about books, AA, parenting, yoga, Enneagram, love…basically my dream friend date, but when I’m done, I look cute.

Now it was Stella’s turn, but she wasn’t chatting about anything. She was staring wide-eyed in the mirror. Ali did an amazing job of checking in with her, inviting her to feel her hair and how it was changing, and let her know if this was what she wanted. Stella nodded and sometimes managed to squeak out a quiet affirmation, but otherwise was a black box. I worried if she might be freaking out—I certainly know the feeling, but she also seemed sort of zen quiet, not deer-in-headlights quiet. Even though it was unusual for her, I let it roll.

It wasn’t long before I knew how Stella felt about her new look. When we got home, she immediately put on her new favorite song, “Believer,” from what seems to be the YouTube version of The Brady Brunch—a family of blonde people called The Fun Squad Family. It’s got a dark vibe and a big sound. Suddenly she was dancing as I’d never seen her dance before—on beat, throwing her body to the floor like a trained modern dancer, glaring into the imagined camera.

Oh. I see. Stella feels fierce-as-F.

She didn’t have the words to describe it, but her body was saying it all. I know this feeling—when I put on an outfit that makes me feel badass, or leave an incredible musical performance or dance party, or read a novel that leaves me breathless for my own creative realization. She was full of feeling and completely embodied.

I was reminded of the ways in which my daughters continue to teach me so much about the limitations of language. Maya, my 9-year-old, has always been more internal. Art is her native language. When she was younger I used to sometimes talk myself into a sputtering, exhausted mess before I realized that she had zero interest or capacity in “processing” her meltdowns. Instead, she needed strong physical connection and time.

Stella is usually verbal. Hilariously and precociously so. She’ll learn an adult phrase and wear it out. Her recent favorite: How dare you! Hand her the pepper instead of the salt. How dare you! Call her by the cat’s name. How dare you! Remind her it is time to go to bed. How dare you!

So her salon silence was a surprise and her body’s expression a pure joy. Not everything that is felt can be described. That’s part of what makes it magical—the absence of words pinning it down. Name less. Move more.

When Stella and I were snuggling in her racecar bed Sunday night I decided to try a little experiment. Maybe a few days after the salon she’d have more language. I asked, “How does your new haircut make you feel?”

“Powerful,” she said immediately. And then added: “And next, I’d like to dye my hair purple. And get a leather jacket.”

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What makes you feel fierce as F? When and from whom have you learned the limits of language?