"the first time I chopped off my hair"
I'd always believed that hair is a girl's crowning glory. But I had to cut mine off to feel like a queen.
by Libba Bray
Like a lot of girls, battling my hair has been a
life-long struggle for me. For one thing, I've got a
huge cowlick right up front that makes having
bangs an act of faith. For another, it's so straight
and fine it can't hold a curl at gun-point. As a little
girl, I endured excruciating Saturday nights of
Dippity-do gel and pin curls so I could sport soft,
lovely waves for church on Sunday, only to end up
with it flat as pancakes by lunch. It didn't help that I
grew up a copper-penny redhead in a world of
Texas blondes and big-haired brunettes. To me,
femininity equaled long, thick, flowing, non-red
locks. Dallas Cowboys Cheerleader Hair. The kind
of shampoo-commercial hair you could fling around
like a wild pony while boys swooned. As a kid,
well-meaning old ladies would say to me, "where
did you get that red hair?!" and I would answer,
confused (and not just a little freaked out), "It came
with my head."
As I got older, torturing myself via my hair
became an obsession. No matter what I did, it was
never right--basically, I was never right. I tried
crimping it, braiding it, and hot-rollering it. I even
permed it two days before my junior prom, but it
took on only one side of my head, giving me a half
human, half Chia Pet look.
My fight with my hair got even worse after I
turned 18. That year, I was in a devastating car
accident that disfigured my face and left me
needing to wear a prosthetic eye. The accident
certainly had a huge impact on my entire life, but it
also brought new insecurities about my hair. From
then on, every hairstyle I adopted had to have a
long curtain of bangs to cover the left side of my
face. I literally hid behind my hair. Whenever a
stylist would suggest that I might look great with a
cute, short 'do, I'd shake my head. "I'm not pretty
enough to get away with that," I'd say, and ask
them to leave it long.
Finally, one day, I'd had it. Nothing was going to
change my hair texture--or give me back my preaccident face, for that matter. So, armed with a
picture of a fabulously shaggy short cut, I marched
into the first salon that would take me, sat in the
chair, and said those four fateful words: "Cut it all
off." I bit my lip and watched as five, six, then
seven inches of hair hit the floor. There would be
no hiding now. It was like saying, "Hey, world!
Here I am!" It was terrifying. It was liberating. I
touched my new, full-bodied, spiky cut and smiled.
It was like someone had taken a picture of my soul
and made a hairstyle out of it.
I realized that the preoccupation I'd always had
with my hair was just a cover-up. The real battle
was about my desire to be perfect and the millions
of flaws that stood between me and whatever I
imagined perfection to be. Once I accepted that I
was never going to have "princess hair," I was freer
to accept myself just as I was. I finally stopped
living in a state of "when": When I grow out my
hair...when I lose weight...when I become someone
else entirely...then I will be pretty enough, perfect
enough, and my real life will start. Cutting off my
hair felt like shedding years of insecurity.
Much of my life, I had been consumed with
trying to force my hair and myself to fit someone
else's notion of beauty, to be something I'm not.
For years, I desired to look just like the images of
women I saw in the magazines. But finally I
stepped off the treadmill of beauty that had made
me feel as though I had to keep running faster,
longer, harder just to catch some elusive ideal. I
know I will never be tall and exotic with a thick
mane. Long hair is too overwhelming for my face.
But that's okay, because short hair suits me. I've
finally learned that every girl has to find what
makes her feel beautiful--your own brand of beauty.
With short hair, I walk taller, look people straight in
the eyes, speak up more, even wear bright red
lipstick. I've discovered the joys of dangly earrings,
rhinestone barrettes, and bare shoulders. I feel
sophisticated and attractive. I finally feel like me,
and being me finally feels really great.
Sometimes, I'll sit and watch other women walk
by and stare wistfully at their long braids, cool
dreads, or thick curls. I'll wonder what their lives
are like, but then I'll remember that I'm living my
own life right now. My wonderful, intense,
beautifully imperfect life is zooming along full
throttle, and frankly, it's rocking some pretty fierce
hair.
Cosmogirl. Nov 2006. 137.