How Shaving Off My Long Curls Felt Both Freeing and Confronting

A woman’s worth and beauty are not dependent on her hair

I rarely put my face out there, this is another brave step by me! Scroll to the bottom for another.

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Until I reached puberty, my hair was simple, predictable, straight, and glossy. Then bam. It stuck two fingers up at me and said, “Watch this!” For the next 30-odd years, it proceeded to do whatever the hell it wanted, no matter how much wrangling and cajoling I did.

Curly ringlets underneath, frizzy waves on top. Sections at the front that were constantly shapeshifting, keeping me on my toes and fueling my exasperation. And so much of it! My shower would regularly clog up, and even hairdressers commented on how thick my hair was.

Every morning, I would wake up with a bird's nest on my head. For years, I straightened my hair; then, feeling conflicted about my authenticity, I embraced my curls and tried the Curly Girl Method. I can reel off lists of products and routines I’ve tried. And while some may well have worked, they all took time—time I wanted for living, not trying to make my hair look pretty and socially acceptable.

I dreamt of the type of hair I could run a brush through, pop it in a ponytail, and then get on with whatever adventure the day brought. But alas, that wasn’t the hair-hand I was dealt.

And no, despite what was once suggested to me by a man, it’s not as simple as putting a brush through curly hair to “tame it”. The mere suggestion of such will have all curly-haired people wincing. If you know, you know.

I had become a prisoner of my hair. It stole my time, my attention, my self-esteem. The 100,000+ strands of keratin sprouting from my head were controlling how I felt about myself.

Finally, enough was enough, I sat in the hairdresser's seat, mesmerised by my curls falling to the floor and transfixed by the sound of scissors, slowly cutting away the old me.

The truth is, it’s taken me almost two months to find the words to describe chopping off all my hair. Because deep in the rationale for this rebirth lies shame.

Shame for admitting to the bullying I endured because of my hair. And shame for spending decades perpetuating the crippling patriarchal beauty standards women endure.

I needed time to settle into my new hair, to adjust to my appearance and experience the liberation it gifted me before I could write about it with any form of affection and acceptance.

And here we are.

Hi, I’m Ali, I have extremely short hair, and I love it.

I’ve had my hair cut twice in just over a month.

The initial cut from long to short was the first act of defiance, or bravery, or simple reclamation. I took my pixie cut and wore it with trepidation. I didn’t love it (yet), but I didn’t hate it. It was just different.

We are learning not to comment on other people’s weight, but it still seems to me that hair is fair game. I felt conspicuous because I knew my hair change defied global beauty standards of long, luscious locks, and as such, would likely evoke complex reactions and projected emotions.

What I didn’t expect, though, was such a crude and telling comment, words of resistance to what they perceived as my rebellion against femininity. Upon seeing my new cut, someone close to me said this:

Men don’t like women with short hair.

I’ve sat with those words over the last month, allowed them to permeate. Perhaps it was those words that prompted me to return to the hairdresser for a second cut, where instead of trimming my cute, almost feminine, pixie cut, we pulled out the clippers and set to work. The result wasn’t quite a Sinéad O’Connor, but it’s similar. Perhaps my hair will help me become as ferociously brave as she was.

Anyway, back to that comment. I don’t exist for men’s approval. Although, admittedly, I’ve wasted far too much time trying to be appealing to the male gaze. I now know that my worth is not based on my ability to fit in with the beauty standards, and do what society expects of me, just so I can be seen as feminine and attractive.

In the past I’ve wasted time lamenting my small boobs then overcome this when I realised how cumbersome big bouncing bazookas would be to my lifestyle anyway. And just as I learned that my beauty is not defined by my body, or my face… now I’m in my “fuck it” era I’m learning that my beauty is not defined by my hair either.

My beauty is in the wrinkles around my eyes. I carry it in my smile and laughter. I share it in my empathy. It’s in the alchemy of the kindness and courage stirred in my soul. My beauty is in my ability to be open and loving, and also fierce and ruthless. The beauty I emanate is in the invisible forces that connect me to nature and animals. My willingness to be vulnerable and authentic is what makes me beautiful.

And if someone wants to restrict my beauty to my hair, well, that’s their loss.

For years, I was teased about my hair. Robert, a boy in my school, called me “Bumfluff”. I’ve never shared this publicly; it pains me to type that B-word. I fear you may read this and laugh. Please know that that laugh is like a knife to my soul. Children are cruel. Mocking someone for simply showing up as themselves is an act of callous oppression.

Shamefully, I have carried this visceral trauma in my nervous system for decades. You see, others joined in this mocking, and I shrank. I was taught to hate my hair. To feel ugly because of my hair. To see my hair as the problem.

But my hair was never the problem. The problem was this boy, Robert. The problem was all the people who teased me. Bullied me. The problem was all the ways we women are told that to be beautiful, successful, happy, and fulfilled, we must look a certain way and subscribe to specific beauty standards, which includes having long, silky, gently tousled hair.

An article titled The Pressure On Women To Have Long Hair, published in ABC, outlined several women’s experiences of being tangled up in society’s hair expectations. One woman described her panic about being cut off from her hairdresser during COVID-19 and the impact this would have on her locks. Another described wearing a wig to feel “normal” as her hair started thinning.

And these women are not alone. During a candid conversation with Pamela Anderson about natural beauty, Drew Barrymore, actor and talk show host, famously removed her hair extensions live on an episode of The Drew Barrymore Show.

Women everywhere are spending excessive time, money, and stress to present a head of hair that meets societal expectations.

I’ve realised it is devastatingly common for women to feel naked and exposed for wearing their hair natural. You see, very rarely is naturally beautiful hair actually natural. It has taken hours of cutting, treating, drying, styling, extending... and these hours accumulate. On average, women spend almost an hour every day on their hair. Just think of all the other things you can do in that time.

The odd photo I have of my old curls looking what I would consider good, is after just the right cut, with just the right time elapsed post cut, just the right amount and type of product, just the right amount of humidity for air drying, and just the right fiddling and scrunching… to look passable for a few hours before turning into a nest again that night. Then wash, rinse and repeat.

And so now, I finally say bollox to all of that.

Just as I was getting used to my new short “do”, I had an appointment with my therapist.

Wow, I love your hair, you look great, it really suits you.

I told her about my complex relationship with my hair and the mixed reactions I’d had since cutting it. All too often, other people’s judgments give us an insight into their fears.

As I sat with my therapist, I admitted it had taken some getting used to. Just as a butterfly, freshly emerged from its chrysalis, needs to spread its wings to allow the sun to dry them before it can fly, I, too, needed to feel the sun on my own metaphorical wings before I could flutter around and showcase my newfound beauty.

My therapist helped me see the power I held. There was courage in knowing what reactions would meet me and still being willing to face them so I could honour myself and my own needs.

It was my therapist who directed me to a deeply relatable piece Why I Cut Off All My Hair by author Elizabeth Gilbert.

Gilbert shares tales of her difficult relationship with her hair and of finding freedom in chopping it all off.

However, what I appreciate most in her words is the way she addresses the sexism of acceptable hairstyles.

Nearly every one of the men in that room had cropped, buzzed, convenient-looking hair. They were all a bunch of silver foxes with lined faces and handsome features, and they all looked great. And every single one of the women in that room had some version of long, extremely expensive-looking, complicated hair — most of which was “blond.” And I thought, Why are we still doing this? Why has hair become so gendered?

She also speaks of the way many men don’t like her hair. And her retort?

I cannot organize my life anymore around what men like; there simply isn’t time for it.

Bingo, my friend, bingo.

You can like my hair or hate my hair, I’m learning not to care. I am not here for anyone’s aesthetic pleasure or comfort. Finally, I am free from the shackles of hair-wrangling and curl-stressing.

No more bird’s nest here.

And if in time I decide to grow my hair again, that is okay too, but that is a decision that is mine to make, and not one that will be imposed upon me by those feeling threatened by my lack of “femininity”.

To all those women looking on with envy, thinking me brave, go do it, girl.

Thank you for reading. This piece was originally published at The Virago on Medium.

I’d love to hear your thoughts about hair. Feel free to drop a comment in and add to the conversation. If there is a topic you would like me to write on, I welcome your suggestions.

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