Regarded myself in the mirror, teeth gritted. In my right hand, I wielded a pair of scissors, their blank shininess reflecting my tormented glance. In my left hand, I held the scraps of my self-esteem. I raised the scissors to my forehead and caught my hair — a few dozen strands or so. With a simple squeeze of the handles, the withered locks, those dead parts of me, fell. I felt a surge of relief.
I kept going until I had hair in name only, a protective sheath of close-cropped strands. With the scissors under a cold stream of water, I ran my fingers through the remaining peach fuzz.
With my treacherous hair gone, I could move forward.
“When I look in the mirror, my hair feels like me, like a part of my identity.” — Elizabeth W., Oregon
As a young child, my natural blond waves perfectly complemented my gapped teeth and button nose. Everyone in my family had curly dark hair, but early on, I was an outlier.
Eventually, nature caught up, and my hair turned brown and curly. I did not take well to the transition. My beloved brush snagged and broke my curls, and as I battled for popularity in a school full of young Southern belles, I wept for the loss of my blondness.
The breaking point came when Ashley Jane, an eternally popular girl and the darling of the local theater community, went blond. Although she first resembled Cruella de Vil as they transitioned her hair, she eventually became our local Marilyn. I firmly believe that going blond helped her land the titular role in our production of Annie, which, ironically, meant her new locks had to be concealed under a wig.
My mother took me to a hairdresser named Pat, whose hairstyle seemed perpetually stuck in the 1980s. Sadly, my curls weren’t dramatic enough to reach ‘80s-level epic-ness, though Pat certainly tried. She’d turn her hands into claws and scrunch my hair to no end, then stroke the sides into wild wings as she chewed her gum with an open mouth. I always left the salon with hair that approximated a poodle, and I would hop into the shower or furiously brush out the faux perm as soon as I got home.
“After fighting with my hair all through my teenage years, I realized I just needed to accept the type of hair I had. While I wanted straight, glossy hair, I learned to appreciate the waves and texture.” — Susan B., Florida
I hated my curls with a passion. I envied my best friend’s long blond hair, which she kept in a braid as a tomboyish protest against her mother’s preferences. Her hair was thick and strong, easily wrangled so that she could climb the monkey bars and play soccer. Meanwhile, my fine, thin hair flew in the wind, frizzed in hot weather, and generally served as a nuisance.
Medusa, one of the Gorgons in Greek myth, had snakes for hair. Her appearance was apparently so hideous that it turned men to stone. Despite modern interpretations suggesting Medusa was a terrifyingly beautiful woman who retained agency in her fatal gaze, the original message of the myth rings true in contemporary society. Bad hair = looks that kill (and not in a good way).
When I was 12, I had a major crush on a boy named Caleb. He had that floppy do that was so popular in the ’90s, epitomized by the hairstyles of Leo DiCaprio and Billy Zane in Titanic. I was elated when he asked me to the spring dance. Yet when the photos from this illustrious event came out, I was horrified. I spent hours staring at the portrait, focused not on Caleb’s cuteness (he’d dumped me anyway), but at my hair. My poofy, ugly brown hair, gloriously accentuated by my braces and way-too-shiny dress. I was a mushroom-headed not-goddess, hardly worthy of Caleb’s affections.
Eventually, I took to slicking my hair into a ponytail. I’d fight with the strands on the sides of my head, which would indignantly pop out despite my liberal use of hair gel. My portraits showed a Dorian Gray–like progression as my hair vanished with every passing year, consumed by my increasing obsession with keeping my curls under control.
“Bouts of anxiety led to hair dye (green, purple, orange, etc.). It brings temporary relief. When I’m anxious for change, it’s nice to know I can find a little of that in messing with my hair while I wait for the effects of my therapy and medication to work for me.” — Robin B., Florida
It wasn’t until my post-college years that I started to appreciate the curls. I stopped brushing and gelling them into oblivion. Still, I was tired of my boring brown locks. I dyed my hair regularly, experimenting with various shades of red and even going jet black. I enjoyed being a fiery redhead. It suited my personality.
Then, my 30-year-old musician boyfriend, Danny, dumped me for one of his groupies, who was fresh out of high school. He chose the big-breasted girl with waist-length platinum blond hair, citing “she’s really into music” as his reason. I guess my brown curls blinded him to my years of voice lessons and love of classic rock.
Once again, the blonde won.
I have dyed my hair whatever I fancied, eager to find the color that would make me feel beautiful. But my obsession with hair color backfired, leaving me with hair that was ruined, dyed, and stressed to shreds.
I needed to reset. And so that was when I took the scissors to my head and trimmed the dead strands down to a mere fuzz.
“I’ve played with length and color a lot. Short makes me feel more self-conscious about my round face, and long is hard because my hair is so fine. But I do feel like self-confidence and self-consciousness is tied with how my hair is doing.” — Lisa H., Florida
My new look did not go unnoticed. Half the messages I received on dating apps seemed to be desperate pleas for me to grow my hair back out.
“You need long hair to balance that gorgeous strong nose,” read one message from a bloke who added the word “gorgeous” as an afterthought.
“Women with short hair are broken,” said another, less diplomatic message.
I internalized that message for years, desperate to grow out my hair and prove I was not, in fact, broken.
When I met G., my eventual abuser, I immediately noticed his long blond hair. “You should grow out your hair so we can be hippies together,” he told me, eager to make me his prop. He hated whenever I trimmed my hair or did anything of my own volition. His abuse made me want to change — again. I hated being a brunette. I hated feeling ugly.
“Lost it all as a toddler with chicken pox. It came back, but different. Then, after I had my son, it fell out in clumps, and I had visible bald spots for about six months.” — Anonymous
WRITTEN BY
Rachel Wayne
Writer by day, circus artist by night. I write about art, media, culture, health, science, and where they all meet.
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