The summer before I started college, I cut off my hair.

For years it had tormented me with its plainness, running down the length of my back but otherwise unnoteworthy. I talked about cutting it, dreamed about cutting it, but never did cut it.

Maybe because it was easier to hide behind when it was long, and as a teenager, I did a good bit of hiding. I was known for slinking through the hallways of my arty high school, headphones turned up to 11, eyes trained to the ground. I had a handful of close friends, but the school was massive (more than 3,000 students) and the sheer number of those talented, dramatic teenagers gave me heartburn.

My hair did well to hide not only my face but also my emotions. Times were rocky for my family. After my parents split, my mother, brother and I moved from a New Jersey suburb into Manhattan and in the blink of an eye I was a city kid. Everyone at my new school seemed so mature, worldly.

But I felt lost. Would I ever fit in? Couple that with the typical stuff of hormonal adolescence and you get me — shaggy-haired and insecure.

My mother worked in the fashion and beauty industry in New York City where we lived, so I would often have the opportunity to meet famous designers or hair stylists. Of course, I was far too intellectual (snobby) to be impressed by such shallowness, but I did, nonetheless take advantage of the odd free (to me) haircut performed by a famous stylist.

I had no idea how famous or significant said stylist was, and how well-known he or she might be for dramatic hair makeovers, so I usually opted for something innocuous. "Oh just here for a trim! Nothing major!" Lame.

Then one hot June day, eight weeks before shipping off to Pittsburgh for college, I decided to cut it. Really, cut it.

Winona Ryder was America’s sweetheart at the time (OK, a dark, moody, quirky sweetheart) and I idolized her. I pointed to a picture in a magazine of her artfully disheveled bob and asked Edward Tricomi, the famous stylist whose chair I was sitting in, if he could cut my hair like hers.

Could he? Oh, you bet he could.

His expert fingers flew and his long, tapered sheers glinted in the bright overhead lights, and lengths of long, auburn hair (mine!) floated to the ground, scattering around me like party streamers.

With each chunk of liberated hair I felt stronger.

As he brushed off my shoulders and finished blow drying (it took all of two minutes to blow dry!), I could feel eyes on me. A few of the other stylists came over to take a look and share their appreciation for the transformation that had just occurred. I had never gotten this kind of attention before, and certainly not for a haircut.

A haircut becomes a compass

Hair is significant in most spiritual practices. Samson famously lost his locks to the menacing shears of Delilah, rendering him temporarily powerless. Siddhartha cut his hair at the start of his journey toward enlightenment. Christian monks and mystics have long practiced tonsure, a partial shaving of the head as a way of inducting and identifying members of a monastic or sacred order. Some Native American tribes cut their ebony locks as an outward sign of inward grief and mourning.

Hair plays an important role in literature and film, too. Remember that scene in V for Vendetta when Natalie Portman's character is forced to shave her head? Shudder.

But how she then grows into her new kick-ass persona, one that viewers, would find unbelievable had she kept her shiny tresses. Or what about Ophelia, whose long, disheveled locks symbolized feminine madness for centuries? Who would Helena Bonham Carter be without her unruly mane?

If my life were a story, what I've done with my hair would play significantly in its arc and the development of the main character — me. It has been long, short, blonde, black, red and even pink for a brief spell. I can look back at pictures and remember where I was, emotionally and even spiritually, according to what my hair looked like.

Hair is a totem. It can tell us where we are on our journey, and sometimes even where we might be headed.

It's that time of year again, back to school, and time for the back to school haircut. As I drop my daughter off each morning I notice the freshly-shorn boys and girls, smart in their new school uniforms, marching off to a new adventure. Even some of the parents have gotten in on it — trimming, cutting and coloring, choosing to grab a new beginning for themselves, too.

Sydney and I got our back to school haircuts together. She went first. Our stylist is my good friend Lindsey, so if I cry, she won't hold it against me. And believe me, when we measured out three inches to chop from Sydney's honey, hanging-plant mane, I almost cried.

Sydney, on the other hand, was thrilled. She hopped out of the chair, shook out her new 'do and joyfully spun around in front of the mirror. While I took my turn in the chair, she twirled and skipped her way around the salon, showing off her new look to the mildly amused patrons.

When cutting means growth

Hair isn't everything, of course, but it is something. And you can bet that a dramatic change in someone's appearance can signify some pretty dramatic personal growth. Or at least it can signify a desire for growth. For years I made the mistake of thinking that a new haircut was all I needed to shoehorn myself out of a legitimate depression. But alas, though my look had changed, nothing else had. I didn’t want to do the difficult work of caring for myself, so I thought surface change would be good enough.

I learned the hard way. I'm glad to say I won't substitute a haircut for a session with my therapist, or a moment of prayer, or meditation — not these days. But changing my hair helps me express on the outside work that I am doing on the inside.

Some years ago, when Lindsey began her career, she had the word "agape" tattooed to the inside of her ring finger. "Agape" is the Greek word for "love," as in God's love, and catching a glimpse of that word each day reminds her that the work she does with her hands is an opportunity to love and encourage another human being. And she does.

We all know, and dozens of hair horror stories will attest, that a stylist can hurt as well as help heal our fragile egos. Plopping down in the salon chair is an act of surrender. When I sat in that chair, clutching my photo of Winona Ryder, I was at Edward's mercy. But mercy is exactly what he showed me. He listened, he was gentle and he saw the me that I wanted to be. And he helped me become her.

Inner work and outer work can go hand in hand.

The person I was didn’t change all that much after my Winona Ryder haircut. But that haircut was the beginning of my journey toward the person God created me to be, the person I want to be. That's the journey I am still on. No matter what state my hair is in.

Cameron Dezen Hammon writes the blog Hipster Christian Housewife.