My blood goes cold as another lock of my black hair falls to the ground, “do you like it?”, I stare back at the hairdresser hesitantly - I’m afraid to lie to her. “Yes, I do,” I say with a fake smile that does nothing but cover the truth until I can stand up and leave the chair…
Hair holds emotional weight and energy of the past, and in some cultures seen as an extension of the soul, like a tail. I always admired how people saw haircuts as a way to let go of some way of the past. For most of my life, my hair was on the shorter side, there were only a few times in my life where it was long in terms of it would stretch beyond the mid-way point of my back. I used to have hair that grazed my shoulders, in middle school, I had hair that was on the shorter side- I liked it that way, it's simply what worked for me. I liked how easy it was to deal with as it was severely bleached and color-damaged. But now I’ve seen its healthy growth as I’ve felt less and less inclined to do anything crazy with it as I've gotten older. In a way, it's become a challenge to myself to see how long I can let it grow before I say “to hell with it,” and do away with three-plus years of progress with a pair of hefty kitchen scissors at 3 a.m. I have not had a dramatic haircut since around 2020 - and I don’t see myself changing any time soon. In a way, I equate my need to do less with my hair, to growing up. My taste has changed and my need to micromanage my hair has disappeared. I allocate more time to different areas of my life or even appearance.
When I was younger, around the ages of 12-15, I felt the need to change my hair every other month, I was still at a point of finding my style. It was almost a routine, bouncing back and forth between different hair colors and haircuts because I had the time and resources to do so. Now as an adult living a much more complicated independent life, I feel like my hair has become more of a functional tool rather than a purely fashionable tool. A part of this “routine” I feel had also come from the fact that I had was in a middle school that required its students to wear uniforms. My hair was my only outlet of self-expression at the time. If I couldn't dress the way that I wanted, I could at least dye and cut my hair in a way that felt right for me at the time. Now in my early adulthood, it’s not to say my long dark hair isn't fashionable, but to me now it serves a different purpose. My hair holds the weight of my past, when I look down at the ends of my hair, I feel like I'm looking back at my past and recounting all the progress I have made. The lighterned ends remind me of all the times, I’ve bleached it, dyed it, and made it black again because I get bored of having one hair color too long. Something I didn’t realize is how hair also holds onto trauma. Cutting hair is a tool of empowerment, especially for those in moments where they are in the midst of a life-altering change. In moments where I have wanted to cut my hair short, it was out of necessity or comfort. I never paid close attention to the emotional weight it held until I let it grow. There have been moments in my hair journey where things have gone haywire and it felt like the end of the world. Because hair is so personal and we feel so much attachment it would make sense that if something doesn't go right with our hair, it can feel like a botched plastic surgery job. Even if it's something so minute, the feeling of something not going right with your hair can throw off the whole outlook of the rest of the day.
For as long as I can remember my grandmother has had an obsession with hair. The woman is 90, still dying her roots black each week. Upon asking her why she feels the need to keep up with it she told me that when she was little, she had beautiful long hair and her parents wanted her to be a child model, but her dad said no. She's kept it short ever since, I believe this was to be the catalyst of her obsession and control over her hair. She grew up in the 1930s-40s, a time that was infamous for its perfect pin-straight hair and sleek bobs. Anything out of the normal was frowned upon. For her, having hair that was frizzy, curly, or unruly was considered “out of the ordinary”. Leaving her hair “natural” wasn't a considered option until the 1960s and 70s and later the 80s when having big curly pompadour-esque hairstyles was an acceptable trend. She calls anything longer than her bushel of black curls that sit on her head that’s not perfect, a rat nest. She doesn’t feel like that now but her strong belief and insecurity in her hair remain. Her obsession with sticking to strict social conformity was a fixation that was lived on through her grandchildren. She's afraid of being seen as abnormal, she's afraid of being perceived as strange. And she doesn't want the same for her grandchildren. She has a notorious history of getting the grandchildren’s haircut and not telling one of the parents beforehand. My cousin Elise, who had gone out with my Grandmother, got her hair cut by surprise with my grandmother. My aunt had no idea until she came home with short hair. I had a similar incident when I was about four. Like my grandmother at that age, I had long dark hair, and one day I think she got tired of my hair being that long and took me to get it cut without my dad knowing. I was too young to remember this story, but from what I’ve heard from my mother retelling this story, he was upset that he wasn't able to be there for the collection of the lock of hair. It feels strange to be so detached from a memory as if I was never there. To be told this story as if I was a character and not a participant. But this story still sticks with me and I remember it whenever I think about impulsively cutting my hair. I sympathize with the little girl who had no control over her physical appearance at such a young age.
After this incident, my mom was sure to collect a piece of hair after I got a haircut. My dad when I asked about why he saw such importance in collecting my hair told me that collecting a lock of hair is seen as a way to keep a loved one close. It’s a way to hold onto a piece of a memory, a memory that would be long gone if there was no souvenir to immortalize it. They are seen as tokens of affection, a way to hold onto a physical memory. He said, “Because it was the first tangible thing that is part of our legacy together”. Even my paternal grandmother has a lock of my father’s hair, it's simply a tradition he holds onto. He is a sentimental person, any gift I give him he keeps, and any art piece I give him he holds onto, if not displays it. He curates a space that reminds him of his favorite parts of the past. My grandmother is scared of the past and allows it to control her actions, my father is the polar opposite. He looks at the past as a place to memorialize, this is something that I had not come to realize until he told me about my first haircut. My father told me about how he learned that the British Lords keep a lock of hair to hold onto as a way to remember a family lineage to build a legacy. He always wanted to teach me from a young age that I was a part of something much bigger than myself. That the things you can hold onto, tangible or not, are all a part of a much broader story.
When thinking of dramatic haircuts I often think about Britney Spears. In 2007 she had a dramatic hair change in which she shaved her head following her divorce from her ex-husband, Kevin Federline. She was in the spotlight for most of her life, treated as a commercial object, I see her shaved head as a way to claim her autonomy and become an independent person. She shaved her hair in an attempt to free herself from her past and start again, I think it was a smart move. While I have never shaved my head or foresee myself going completely bald, I've had close friends who have gone from having mid-length hair and going completely bald. My friend Ally said it was something she had wanted to try for a while but felt eventually inspired once her friends Aidan and Riley had taken the initial leap. She also told me about how the idea of starting fresh felt exciting for her. At the time of cutting her hair, she was moving out of her parent's house and felt more inclined to become more experimental with her hair. I understand where she's coming from. Since moving out of my hometown and away from my parents, I have felt the urge to experiment with my physical appearance and try things I haven't done before. While those things may not always pertain to my hair as it's something I feel like I've experimented with enough, I will always have that itch to try.
For as long as I can remember I have always had an emotional attachment to hair. I've done almost everything under the sun to it, bleached it, dyed it, cut it short, grown it long, and had my fair share of bad at-home haircuts. Every time my mother would have to console me and remind me that my hair would indeed grow back, it's what it does and will continue to do. Each time it's a patient waiting game that I will always overcome. Hair is a game of patience, no matter what you do to it. The locks that grow from our heads tell a story, from the dry and maybe scraggly ends to the new and healthy growth at the top, every inch that grows from our heads is earned via the patience we have to endure life.
Hair acts as a protector- in both a literal and metaphorical sense. Hair acts as a protector of the soul, of the mind, and can even be a signifier of a major life change. It can be a signifier of loyalty to a certain religious practice. The practice of tonsuring is when a part of a monk's or priest's head is left bare on top by shaving off the hair. It represents the devotion to the church and a sign of humility. Similarly, monks remove their hair completely as a way to rid themselves of worldly ego and fashion. In Buddhism, shaving your head is part of Pabbajja. Pabbajja is when a person departs their home to live the life of a Buddhist among other ordained monks. It is seen as the most crucial element of becoming a monk. With this in mind, I wonder why hair is seen as a possession to rid yourself of. In contrast, Victorian women were expected to grow their hair out as long as possible without cutting it as not just a sign of femininity but superior health and hygiene. Religions such as Orthodox Judaism, Rastafarianism, and Sikhism all prohibit haircuts, the removal of facial hair, or a combination of the two as their beliefs lead to that hair is sacred or a gift from God. In Native American cultures, it is thought that a person's long hair represents a powerful cultural identity. This strong cultural identity promotes self-esteem, self-respect, a sense of belonging, and a restorative feeling of pride. Hair has been closely studied by anthropologists, especially concerning initiation and marriage ceremonies, mourning rituals, and magic. Some cultures believe that a connection remains between the individual and the chopped hair, allowing the person who gained possession of the locks to exert power. This is why collecting locks of hair and making jewelry and medicinal treatments out of it was a common practice, not only as a way to keep the souls of a loved one close but as a way to keep them safe as well.
On both sides of the spectrum, having both long and short hair is seen as a way to reclaim autonomy and as a symbol of freedom over the body. Weirdly, I feel relations to both of these practices, while maybe not in the religious sense but in the need to devote myself to something. In any hairstyle one would decide to try, there is a need to keep up with its maintenance. Changing your hair is a way to dedicate yourself to a new lifestyle- whether you need to apply excess products to it, continue to touch it up with dyes or bleach, or even just brush through it every day to prevent knots.
Growing up, I would sit on the bathroom counter with my mother as she would empty countless perfumed expensive products to tame her head of black color-treated curls. I remember the order in which she would apply these products- mouse (on wet hair), curl cream, then gel, and finishing with a curl diffuser attached to a blow dryer on the coldest setting (hot air damages curls). Watching her felt like a performance, a ritual of sorts. Everything had its place and purpose. She would always complain about how long it would take to do her hair in the morning, she would compliment my hair and with a sigh say “I wish I had your hair, it's so easy to manage. When I was your age, my hair looked like yours, if my hair looked like yours I would save so much time in the morning…” She always told me people want what they can't have, and while this is true in most aspects, I always envied my mother's long curly hair. I saw my long dark hair as a curse I was burdened with, I believed my hair was so plain frizzy all the time, and I admired the way she treated this upkeep of her hair as a ritual every day. Even though she hated how long it took her to finish her hair, I admired how many compliments she would get on it, the fruits of her labor were a fashion statement that grew from her head. I think this is what subconsciously inspired me to begin dying my hair as a pre-teen. I adopted this routine as a way to gain control over my appearance during a time when maybe I didn't have much to show for as a youngster. As I've gotten older I equate my decreased impulse to switch my hair with myself coming to terms with aging. As my mother and I have gotten older together, both of our haircare routines have gotten a lot more simple. Instead of obsessively dying my hair every weekend, my choice of ritualistic practice has moved to obsessively brushing my hair to release the stress and tension from the day from the tresses of my scalp. Asking my mother recently about what she does now she tells me “a pre-wash then add vinegar scalp [treatment], then I conditioner, then a leave-in conditioner, and then a styling cream”. Though I still believe I have a hard time controlling my environment, I still equate my hair with a feeling of control over my physical appearance- and that is something that keeps me moving through life.
Much like those in the catholic church, I was committed to a life of haircare that I wasn't necessarily prepared for. I knew I wanted to have fun colored hair, but I wasn't prepared for how much upkeep it would be. Thinking back on what I was doing all alone in my bathroom as a young teenager, there are so many things I would have told my younger self to do differently. Maybe something like “Make sure you have more than enough product to do what you're planning on doing,” or “Are you sure you want to change your hair color right now? Or are you just bored in the house?”. But my experimentation on late nights in my childhood bathroom was like spending time in a workshop. It was a place where I could experiment, in whatever capacity in whatever shape or form I saw fit. I grew up as an only child, I feel because I had no siblings to keep me company, my parents felt motivated to allow me to be so experimental with my style. If I had no other siblings to keep me company, my parents thought “might as well let myself have fun and experiment by myself”. From a young age, they always knew I was more artistically inclined, they were never afraid to feed that part of my personality as they were artist themselves in their respect. This freedom to explore my identity at such a young age allowed me to become more independent in my exploration of self-discovery and creativity.
Growing up and coming into my adult years has taken its shape in different ways that the younger me could not have even fathomed. The idea of “adulthood” means so many things to so many different people, for me it means finding new ways I can gain control of different parts of my life. Even though I have channeled this need in areas like at-home haircuts, I still feel like I have no control over the outcome of the way the haircut looks in the end. The same goes for when I would dye my hair at home. Most of the time I would just coat my previous dye job with a whole nother color, I would cover a dark burn crimson with a color like a bright sapphire blue. Through this practice, I became very familiar with the color wheel and learned how to control the outcome of my colored bob in my very own childhood dye-stained bathroom. At this point in my life, I am choosing to let the universe take control of my hair. It's been a challenge being this patient with my hair, as with almost anything in life, I have a hard time being patient. I have toyed with the idea of cutting it, bleaching it, etc. but I have no time, energy, or willpower to keep up with such a laborious task. I am letting my hair control itself and grow as long as it wants for as long as it wants. But in a way, my long black hair is a signifier of my Chinese identity. In China, it was customary to keep one’s hair long, as Confucian values considered hair to be a gift from parents. So much so that cutting hair was seen as an offense against one’s family. Now knowing this, I find it important to keep my hair long- not just as a spiritual tie to my heritage, but as a way to pay respects to my ancestors. My long hair was not just a subconscious connection to my roots in this moment of discovery as I’ve moved out of my adolescent years, but like anything in life, I continue to evolve and find what works for me in every present moment. In this difficult journey of self-discovery, I have been open to trying new things and learning about different things I would not have, I had a hard time coming to terms with my cultural identity. I can’t deny that I had struggled most of my life being the only Asian-American in my close community living in the suburbs of Austin Texas, there were not a lot of people in my neighborhood who looked like me. I did anything In my power to blend in if not intentionally stand out. I wanted to take the attention away from the fact that I stood out racially, and instead chose to stand out with brightly colored hair. Dying my hair, was such a big part of my life, people always asked me why I chose such a high-maintenance hairstyle for a person at such a young age, I think I was too scared to admit it was a way for me to hide from who I was. I was a peacock and those were my bright and showy feathers.
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