A billion years ago, I moved to Lafayette, Georgia to work as a therapist in the local mental health center. It was not a good fit, except inasmuch as it gave me lots to write about, which is how I almost always turn a negative into a positive. The other way is by going shopping. One particularly bad day, I discovered a small Unclaimed Baggage outlet, which sold clothing, jewelry, and personal items straight from the luggage of travelers who decided they no longer wanted to own their things and simply abandoned them at baggage claim. I know when I travel I often pack what I no longer want.

A billion years later, i.e. two weeks ago, I heard about another Unclaimed Baggage, this one much larger, in the town of Scottsboro, Alabama. I put out a call to my three favorite co-shoppers, saying we must go to this land of forsaken luggage immediately, before all the great deals, of which I had no actual knowledge, were snatched up. And so we convened on a cold, unlovely day, and made the hour-long pilgrimage to Scottsboro. We stopped for a bite to eat at the counter of an old-fashioned soda shop.

“Going to Unclaimed Baggage?” asked the waiter, presumably because Scottsboro is a town of twelve people, and when numbers 13-16 show up, it’s never for just a turkey sammy and tea.

“Yes!” we said, enthusiastically. “We can’t wait!” Which was a lie, because we had already been to a few thrift stores and were now eating lunch, proving we could, in fact, wait.

“Well, just so you know, it’s very hit or miss,” warned the waiter. Interestingly, both clerks at the two stores we’d been to said the same thing. It was like there had been a town meeting, and all twelve residents had agreed to set the bar low for anyone sashaying into town thinking they might score a Bimbo y Lola purse for an outrageously low price.

The Scottsboro Unclaimed Baggage dwarfed the old Lafayette store. It is its own solar system, with multiple interplanetary departments covering every conceivable fashion need. It’s your quinceañera? There’s a frilly dress for that. It’s your funeral? There’s a somber suit that says, “I’m sad I’m dead” for that. Became a rock star overnight? There’s ripped fishnet hose, nose rings, and sleeve tattoos for that.

And yes, there was a Bimbo y Lola purse, though not for an outrageously low price. Which was ok with me, because I don’t want to shop at a place that won’t respect itself in the morning. 

There is even a museum in the middle of the store showcasing the more exotic items that have gone unclaimed over the years. It houses, among other relics, a full set of body armor, never-seen-before primitive musical instruments, a preserved rattlesnake, and an enormous plaster head from a David Bowie movie. In a cultural moment when I can’t board a plane with over three ounces of hair gel, it’s a wonder any of these things made it into the air.

Before saying goodbye to Scottsboro, we stopped in one more thrift store that had promise. It was there that I donned the short blonde wig that would upend my life (and my hairdresser’s) for the next three days.

Because for three days after seeing myself in that wig, I thought I might need to be that blonde, short-haired person. I sent my hairdresser my wig-wearing selfie and peppered her with text messages. Could my hair look like this, I asked? Would I be traumatized going from long to short? Should I even consider going blonde, or would it be a slap in the face to my dark-haired, historically persecuted Eastern European ancestors?

Most importantly, would I have to style it every morning, meaning would I have to raise a finger to do anything at all, or would my new hair fall into place simply by virtue of my getting out of bed and drinking coffee?

I have known people who have changed their hair on a whim, going from long to short seemingly without thought and certainly without a trauma response. I am not those people. Many years ago I cut my waist-long hair up to my shoulders, and while I “loved” the hairstyle for a full fifteen minutes afterward—it’s so curly, I purred, so healthy looking!—I soon despised the way it made me feel. Like I was masquerading as someone I didn’t know. Like I was an imposter in my own life. Who was I to have bouncy, carefree hair? Who was I to look all lighthearted? This is not who I was!

Over the years, more than one person has suggested that my hair is a security blanket, which I find insulting and short-sighted. Who among us—short or long-haired, suits-or-sweats-wearing, made up or make-up free—doesn’t look the way we do because we are, on some level, more comfortable this way than we would be some other way? Don’t we all want to feel secure in our looks?

In the end, I decided against cutting and coloring my hair. I did go in for a trim, which wasn’t traumatic, and after which I emerged still looking like my ancestors, which I like to think made them happy.

But it took a trip to Unclaimed Baggage to deliver me unapologetically to this place where I am most at home in myself. I hereby reject the accusation that my long hair is a security blanket, and accept instead that how I look and feel about myself is the result of a complex array of factors, all of them deeply personal and all deserving of respect. To the baggage of my past—which posited fear over free choice in the way I wear my hair—I can finally say, without shame or justification, I hereby un-claim you.

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Dana Shavin is an award-winning humor columnist for the Chattanooga Times Free Press, and the author of a memoir, The Body Tourist and Finding the World: Thoughts on Life, Love, Home and Dogs, a collection of her most popular columns spanning twenty years. She is the Literary Arts Program Coordinator for the Dalton Creative Arts Guild. More at Danashavin.com. Email her at [email protected]. Follow her on Facebook at Dana Shavin Writes.