I remember when I was 9 years old, my mother had the idea that a short haircut would look “so cute” on me. Apparently I agreed, otherwise she never would’ve had my hair cut (which is completely like my mom, she always did give us the choice). So, off to the Salon we went and off went the hair. There were no waterworks or tantrums post-haircut, but I do distinctly remember thinking, “I look like a boy.” Now, I was never a delicate girl; I was a tomboy, I played sports, I always had at least one scab on my legs from being too rough. At the time, I didn’t really think much about kind-of looking like a boy.
There are two photos I remember of 9‐year‐old me sporting that short haircut. In one photo, I was standing on our front lawn wearing my version of a Swedish national costume for my school’s United Nations Day celebration; in the other, I was wearing a rather pretty dress for a choir competition. In both instances, I remember feeling out of place. All the other girls had such lovely, long hair and they somehow looked so much prettier in their dresses because of it. I definitely felt self-conscious; that classmate who told me short hair was for boys didn’t make me feel any better.
A mere year and a half after this situation, I was the victim of yet another ‘unfortunate’ haircut. This person, who shall remain nameless, decided it would be a good idea to cut my thick, coarse, wavy hair into one length. No layers, no thinning; just one length, right at the chin. Those of you who are blessed with similar hair are probably shuddering right now, and you should be…because I looked like a mushroom. I also felt really, really ugly…
It was 6 years later when I gathered enough courage to cut my hair short, this time on my own terms. I remember seeing Mandy Moore on the cover of Teen People (which I used to buy religiously) and it was the first time I ever recall seeing a woman with short hair and thinking, “…she doesn’t look like a boy. She looks beautiful.”
I became slightly obsessed with her hairstyle. I remember walking around the house with that magazine, asking my family if I would look good with that particular cut, if I could somehow pull it off. Everybody said yes, but I wasn’t entirely convinced and it took some time for me to be able to take the plunge. Except, true to form, I told the stylist not to cut my hair quite as short. My hair was shorter than it’s been in years, so that counted for something, no? Unfortunately, this type of style required a lot of straightening on my part. So I said goodbye to the short hair and embraced my easier, longer, naturally wavy locks.
Ever since that year, I would periodically cut my hair short; or at least whatever my definition of short is (i.e. above the shoulders, below the chin, still able to hold curls). I had the habit of growing my hair well past my shoulders, then heading to the Salon to have it hacked off. Every single stylist was always so surprised and asked me at least 3 times if I was sure I wanted to cut that much off my hair. To which, I respond with, “Of course! It’s just hair, it’ll grow back.” I was praised for my courage - which always feels nice – and I fell into a routine. Grow hair, cut hair, grow hair, cut hair, always keep it curly.
True, there are benefits to having a routine. I didn’t have to think about what I was going to do with my hair and it would still always look good. In my dancing years, I became known as “The Girl With The Hair.” Of course, all the other girls had hair, but I had HAIR. By the end of those amazing 7 years I spent dancing, I was a pro at hairography and had developed some pretty strong neck muscles from all the whipping back and forth. Without my knowing it, I attached part of my identity to the lion mane on top of my head.
My hair made me feel pretty, it made me feel more like a woman; it also allowed me to hide behind something. Oddly enough, despite being a performer, I’m not much of an exhibitionist. My hair became my safety blanket. I collapsed into myself, becoming incredibly self-conscious and generally uncomfortable in my own skin. My hair became something I could hide behind; if I didn’t want to be seen, all I had to do was tilt my head down and let the waves form a curtain around my face. It also proved to be a good distraction; if there was anything people would comment on upon first meeting me, it was my hair. Deep down, I thought that if people were preoccupied with my mane, then they wouldn’t have the time to notice other things about me which I didn’t want anyone to notice.
But history was meant to repeat itself, because I fell in love with yet another short hairstyle, this time on Frankie Sandford; very short on the left and chin-length on the right, otherwise known as an asymmetrical bob. For a year, I would continuously stare at this hairstyle hoping I would one day get tired of it. When I realized that it wasn’t going to happen anytime soon, I started making numerous excuses to myself about why I shouldn’t cut my hair that short. After all, if I went through with it, I would be going shorter than I ever had before. Finally, it took some wise words from my own brother before I felt ready to do it. He said, “If you can’t take a risk with something as insignificant as your hair, how do you expect to take a risk in your own life?”
I realized he was right. I had become complacent and had settled for something less than what I truly wanted. I knew that things needed to change, so I started with my hair. Cutting my hair wasn’t the catalyst, it was merely the physical manifestation of a change I was making internally. It symbolized the mental and emotional renovations that were taking place in my life.
Now that I hae been sporting short locks for about a month, I can honestly say that I can’t believe it took me this long to take that risk. I feel more like myself somehow and I’ve embraced the newfound confidence that I needed in order to do something semi-drastic.
The biggest surprise for me was realizing that I can, in fact, pull of such a style. I think that we women tend to delude ourselves into thinking we won’t look good in certain things; but if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that you never really know until you’ve tried. I convinced myself for a year that I could never make this work and now I’m eating my words.
I think the most important thing I’ve learned through this journey is that my femininity and beauty are not reliant on the length of my hair. I can’t say that I feel any less feminine and any less attractive than I did before. There’s this pervading belief that short haired women are thought to be less beautiful than their long‐haired counterparts, but I cannot accept that. Beautiful comes in all shapes, sizes and lengths!
Acceptance, that is what has become most valuable for me. Cutting my hair has to led to an acceptance of myself: of my features, of my body… For the first time in a long time, I feel comfortable in my own skin.
And all it took was a small bit of courage and a pair of shears.