Chchchch changes

I recently cut most of my hair off. It's about chin length at the moment, and kind of wild. Every now and then I run my fingers through it, and mourn the lack of length. But for the most part, I fucking love it.Took me a while, though.

I've had long hair since I was 6 years old. When I was 5ish, my mom decided to cut my hair super short. She couldn't handle me sitting there with silent tears running down my face and big brown doe eyes staring at her in the mirror as she went through the daily torture ritual of brushing out my snarly hair. But, she also couldn't bear to do the cutting herself, so she had her friend do it. I'll never forget that woman. Or forgive. Aside from the fact that she was a psychotic bitch who liked to inflict pain, she had little patience for the whimpering of children. She yanked her hard bristle brush through my hair mercilessly, pulled it back into an extremely tight ponytail, and without further ado, cut through my pride and joy. She dropped the lifeless ponytail in my lap, a victorious captain dropping the head of the king at the feet of his people, and yanked the brush through my hair a few more times for good measure. She turned me to face the mirror, and smacked my head at my instant wails. I, once a princess, was now the dreaded pageboy. Oh, the helmet headed horror of those days. My first grade picture, I'm wearing a red corduroy jumper (dress, not sweater for you "international types"), looking miserably into the camera with a brave half smile on my face and my helmet headed pageboyed hair dominating the scene.

I swore to never cut my hair again. I spent the first couple of weeks with helmet head making my mom feel miserably guilty. I had a sense of pathos, and would make sure she could see me as I stared into the bathroom mirror, running the brush through my shorn hair and silently crying. I wasn't a loud child, but I was an evil little manipulator. And my mom never could bring herself to cut my hair again. Even when I was 13 and desperately wanted layers, she had to bring me to hairdressers to do it (we were poor, and the concept of spending 8 bucks on a haircut you could do yourself for free was sacrilegious).

Eventually, the habit of not cutting my hair became so deeply ingrained that even when I desperately wanted to, at the age of 21 after having been told by a ridiculously misogynistic man that I should never, ever cut my hair, I couldn't do it. I had gorgeous hair. Down to my butt, chestnut brown with auburn highlights, not thick but lots of it... I used it as a sexual weapon when I got older. My sisters would laugh at me, because every time a boy I liked was near, I'd start flipping my hair around. It was a dead give away. When I became sexually active, it became a tool of seduction. Long hair, I will admit, is pretty damn sexy. It was also a perfect screen to hide behind. I'd stare out at the world through my bangs, secure in the knowledge that I was just as fuzzy to them as they were to me.

And then I hit 33, and my beautiful hair started to get brittle. My mom warned me about it, the curse of the women in our family. She used to have hair exactly like mine, she'd say, and then point to her thin, short boy hair. I'm pretty sure she was just getting me back for the years of guilt over my hair. But, it came true. It started to get brittle at the ends, and was coming out much faster than normal. I convinced myself it would go away quickly, and just wore my hair up a lot. Finally, it got to the point where I felt stupid for ignoring it. I let it down one day, and the bottom 7in were a ratty, thin mess. The 4in above that weren't so great either, but they weren't as bad. So, while staring blankly into the mirror, I put my hair in pigtails, took a pair of scissors, and cut off over half a foot of hair. I didn't cry, but I didn't let myself feel anything, either. I went into practical mode, and I stayed there. It's stupid, how something as shallow as your hair can fuck with your self image. But I felt like a mannish, ugly woman all of a sudden. Ah, the joys of deeply ingrained programming.

My hair continued to get more brittle, and I had to cut off the last 4in of length. That brought my hair up to my chin. I did it quickly again, without feeling. And I stared into the mirror at 5 year old me. Pageboy, helmet headed, socially awkward child. I swear, I started dressing like 5 year old me. Jeans and shirts that I hadn't worn for years came out of the closet. Fussy, old lady skirts, no make up, no cleavage. No attention from men. I knew, intellectually, that the reason I wasn't getting any attention was because I was putting off hardcore nun vibes. My sexuality had been cut off with my hair, and I was neutral again. But when you're not getting any attention, it's hard to start feeling like you deserve attention again. For me, anyways. Most of my self esteem is based on an extremely defined, strong self of self. But my sexuality is, and always has been, based on a strong sense of connection to others. When I cut that part of myself off, I lost that connection and couldn't find it again.

I finally got sick of moping, sick of feeling bad about myself, sick of looking in the mirror and seeing nothing I liked. I pulled myself up by my bootstraps, and forced myself to start dressing in a way that made me feel sexy again. I forced myself to flirt, to assume that I was eminently fuckable again. It didn't help that I'd gained weight back that I'd lost. Not much, but it felt like a whole hell of a lot in conjunction with everything else.

I started playing with my hair again, touching it constantly, running my fingers through it, tossing it around (as much as it could be tossed). I started to redevelop a sense of connection with myself. It's like when you haven't masturbated in a long time. The first time after that long while takes effort and time. You have to think harder about letting go, touch yourself like a stranger again, get to know yourself again slowly. Not judge yourself when you realize it's just not going to happen this time...

I love my hair right now. I love how I look out at the world unencumbered by a veil. I love the type of attention I get, free of the assumptions that go along with long hair. I love how it frames my face (sort of. It still needs to grow out some to be perfect). I love how it's become a barometer for my health. And I love knowing that I don't need anything other than my sense of self to be sexy. I can imagine losing my breasts and going through that same period of mourning my femininity. But I know I'd get it back. Femininity isn't tied into anything physical. I should know this, based on the number of women with dicks I know. But for me femininity, sexuality, everything I like about being a woman, has become more deeply entrenched in things that can't be taken away from me, that I can't lose.