My Hair

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It’s been said that the fastest and easiest way to change your appearance is to change your hair. Hair and hairstyling can shape how a person presents to the world and even with whom they align themselves. Some cultures even consider hair sacred, and take care of it as such. In the United States, Americans have used hair to set themselves apart as individuals while still conforming to their respective scenes, such as the over the eye bangs for emo kids, or the mullet for 80s motorcyclists. But more importantly than simply hair, is women’s hair, a fact and lesson I learned the hard way.

Let’s ignore, for the sake of this story, whether or not I am “a woman.” As someone who is AFAB, the world will perceive me as “woman” no matter what I say, do, or present myself. So my gender remains unnecessary.

When I was in high school, I had long brown hair that usually rested around my shoulders. It never really strayed higher than chin level on occasion and I always kept my signature side sweep bags. I had no idea how to style hair or what to do with my hair. I knew how to use a curling iron and whatnot but I just didn’t know how to dress myself. I hated my hair. Yes, my hair is soft and fine but there is so much of it. I’ve had hairdressers complain before while cutting it. So every morning (and I still can’t believe I did this every morning) every morning I would wake up early, take a shower, wash my hair, and blow dry it upside down to try to get even a smidgen of volume to my super flat, super dry, super matte hair. It was tiring work. I hated my hair. I hid behind my bangs. I wanted it all gone. I didn’t care how it looked or how I presented myself to others and I certainly didn’t have any attachment to it.

You remember in America’s Next Top Model how some of the women would cry and cry about losing their hair? I understood being upset about a new hairstyle. But being upset about getting your hair cut? Girl, it will grow back! I never had such an adoration for my hair besides not wanting it to look embarrassing.

I wanted to cut all my hair off. Yes, all of it. I wanted it gone. Gone gone gone gone. I thought the only option I had was to get rid of it. So I went to my hairdresser and she refused. She outright said she wouldn’t do it. She said I would look bad and she’s not comfortable cutting my hair this short. I said I didn’t care if I looked bad, just do it. She compromised with a chin length bob, which I guess was flattering, but still, not what I wanted.

Well, senior year of high school arrives and an incredible opportunity presents itself. I got cast as Polonius in my school’s production of Hamlet, with my double cast counter-part played by a sophomore AMAB person who had very short brown hair. I’m sure you see where this is going. The conversation of wigs came up and how to make the two of us look like an old man. Well, they could just put the wig on Padra’s head easy peasy. But what about mine? The costume designer, my friend and recent pixie cut acquirer, encouraged me. She said, do it. You’ll feel free. My director was hesitant and wanted to get permission from my parents first. I said hell no, my parents have never had any say in my hair before and they’re not going to have any say now. It’s my hair! He said fine, do it if you want. I didn’t understand what the big deal was. Why would I need permission from my parents to get a haircut? I was 17 at the time, and I think old enough to make my own decisions about my hair.

I happily told my dad that finally I have an excuse to cut my hair and the hairdresser will have to do it this time. My dad looks me dead in the eyes and tells me “don’t do it.” Maybe it was the teenage hormones in me, but that only made me want to buzz my head even more.

On my way out the door to the hairdresser, my mom is in the kitchen crying. Legit tears coming down her face. I didn’t understand. Pull yourself together, mom. It’s not even your hair.

I went to the hairdresser, and almost three hours later, all of my hair was gone. Chopped off. On the floor. I initially got a lot of compliments, how good it looked. My mom cried again. Apparently she was "nervous it wouldn't look good." And that's when I realized it: a woman's value is in her hair.

People were freaking out about me cutting my hair. Why? Everyone else was so worried I would look ugly. My only value or contribution to society was beauty and my beauty resided in my hair and by cutting my hair off I was rebelling against this notion.

I am the first to admit that the haircut was not perfect. The first cut looked good and I rocked it. Then I kept it. And kept it. And kept keeping it. I didn't know how my hair "grew out" and I didn't realize how hard it was going to be to style short hair (ignorantly thinking it was easier than long hair). So as time went by, I kept getting horrible haircuts. Just horrible horrible haircuts where the hairdresser should have lost a license or something. But I insisted on keeping it. I was stubborn.

Now I'm in college, I have a horrible haircut, and I am unequivocally ugly. Not only is my hair horrendous but my skin is red, blotchy, and blemished. I don't know how to dress myself so my clothes are ill fitting and mismatched. I was sleep deprived and it showed with my sunken eyes and dead stare. I was ugly. That was it. And at the time, I didn't care. I think I hid behind it for a while, being safe in this idea that no one would see the real me.

I got mistaken for a lesbian or a trans man very often. Of course, it’s not offensive to be thought of as a lesbian or a trans man. But what I do find offensive is judging someone based on their looks and disbelieving them when they tell you who they really are. People didn’t think I was a lesbian, they insisted. I had short hair so I had to be in the closet! And that was unacceptable in their eyes. What? Ugly women can only be lesbians? Or lesbians are all ugly? Or all people with short hair are gay? What was it?

Well, I kept the short hair and the sleep deprived eyes essentially unchanged my entire undergraduate career. Then I had one hairdresser who wanted to perm my hair. Not give me curls, but use really big rollers and give me volume. I said sure. Everyone around me said don’t do it. Again, here I am, trying to do something with my hair, and everyone is telling me not to. What is everyone’s obsession with my hair? Why do they feel like they have the right to say whether or not I do something? Maybe they were afraid I was going to get really small tiny curls but in that case, they were clearly not listening to me as I said that’s not what I was getting.

I loved the perm and so did everyone else, duh. I finally had the volume I wanted. I ended up needing a new one shortly after but I had to go to a different hairdresser and that one gave me some bigger curls. Again, I loved it. My mom and sister, not so much. I didn’t care. I had just graduated college and I wanted something new, but of course growing my hair out was never an option. Why not perm it?

I let the perm grow out, not renewing it. I had moved to a new city, and found a better hairdresser. I kept the short length but not as short as a small pixie. People said it looked good. Did it? Eh, who knows. I kept it this way for another two years.

This new hairdresser had been pushing and pushing me to dye my hair. She wanted to lighten it up so badly. And one day… I just said… fuck it. Not only did I let her lighten my hair, I let it grow out. And I didn’t stop. I kept bleaching my hair and letting it grow and bleaching my hair and letting it grow until it’s the length and color it is today. Now my hair reaches past my shoulders and most people think I’m a natural blonde (how foolish lol).

I’m arguably more attractive than I was before. My skin has cleared up, I sleep better, I dress better. I had a glow up. And my hair definitely played a part. I even noticed that people started to treat me differently. My mom was more supportive and open. I felt I got more respect from people. And of course I got different attention from men. People give me more compliments. Living in Taiwan, the Taiwanese love that I have long blonde hair (and even think all Americans have long blonde hair, lol, little do they know). People that only knew me with short hair keep commenting “your hair is so long now!” as if it was never long before.

To be honest, I wish people would just leave my hair alone. Why so many opinions? Why care? I don’t have this strong of a feelings about anyone else’s hair in the world (including Harry Styles!). What does it matter? I’d rather just be left to my own devices. But then think, am I crazy? Does this happen to everyone? It can’t be.

But with this hair I definitely feel like a new person, a different person. However, somehow, the short brown haired me is still there. She’s embarrassed and shy. She’s uncomfortable and ugly. Now I feel more confident, more assured, and more present. I don’t want to have long hair or play into stereotypes of beauty. But right now, this is just comfortable for me.

If you had told me this when I was 17, before I wanted to cut my hair off, I probably would have rolled my eyes. Number one, I would never be blonde again, and number two, there’s no way other people would care that much about my hair. Welp, sorry younger me but they do and they did. I’m not saying let’s take away the power of hair, because being able to style hair and express yourself is important. But let’s take away the misogyny, shall we? Let’s allow people their freedom, free of judgment. Let’s understand that women are more than their beauty and more than their hair. And let’s acknowledge when we slip up on these things.

I’ve come to peace with my hair. And I’ve learned to let the comments be water off a duck’s back. I don’t know how long I’ll keep the blonde or the length. But I paid a lot of money for this color so I’m not just going to chop it off!. Let’s see how long I stay as this version of me, before I cut my hair and become someone else.