Let’s talk about hair. A lot can be said about hair, and many before me have done so. As a woman, especially a brown woman, or a woman with dark body hair, I’ve dealt with bullying and shaming throughout my youth and even into adulthood. The hair on my legs, the hair on my arms, my eyebrows, my sideburns, hair on my upper lip, on my armpits, on my back—there was always someone who thought they were allowed to say something about the hair on my body. But that’s not what this week’s blog post is about.
I want to talk about the hair on my head instead.
Our beauty standards are defined by culture. In the Surinamese-Hindustani culture I grew up in, one of the feminine beauty standards is to have long, luscious hair. These ideas of beauty are so deeply rooted it’s hard for me to pinpoint where they come from exactly, but I’m sure experts have mentioned the iconography and influences from Bollywood (which produces a rather homogenous version of a beautiful woman), South-Asian cultures, and that it also goes back to a colonial past (young, petite, fair skin, almond eyes, etc.). Decades later, I’m certain new influences have altered these standards up to a certain point. Wherever the standard may come from exactly, I know that it affected me growing up.
As a child, I’ve always had extremely long hair. That was one of the defining physical features that set me apart—the girl with the really long, braided hair.
Here’s a picture of me. Cute, right. This picture captures me on my birthday, one of the few times that I asked my mother not to braid my hair for me. On most other days, my hair went down my back into a long braid. But I couldn’t find a proper picture of that, so this is the one you get.
On average, my hair came down to the small of my back, sometimes even lower.
I’m all smiles and happy in that picture. It was a nice day, and looking back at it, I feel happy too. But what you don’t see is how much I didn’t enjoy having such long hair. Sure, I liked that everyone else seemed to like my hair. That’s nice. But I didn’t like it when my mother combed my hair every morning because she had to get all the tangles out and that hurt really bad. The longer my hair was, the more tangles it had, the longer I had to sit and endure. My hair was also really heavy, and yeah… I just didn’t enjoy the experience of having long hair.
Subconsciously, it taught me that other people’s opinion of me (of what’s considered beautiful) mattered more than my personal comfort (or desires).
No wonder I turned into a people-pleaser.
I grew up in a controlling home, so I didn’t have any autonomy over my hair until I turned fourteen. My mother finally allowed me to cut my hair somewhat shorter, after years of me complaining about the length. It was wonderful to finally have some say in the matter—you know, my own hair. And then around eighteen, I decided she wouldn’t get to make any decisions over my hair anymore (this did not go without conflict), and I had saved up money and gotten a haircut against her wishes. After that, I went shorter and shorter each time.
One of the best feelings in the world for me is cutting my hair short. It’s absolutely connected to finally making a choice for myself. But my hair was also much lighter, and there was less tension on my head. It was rewarding to feel so free.
My parents were never taught to give a lot of positive feedback or validation, so I rarely received it. When they saw my new hairdos, they were hesitant in their responses. I asked for their opinions (because yes, their opinion mattered to me—still does up to a certain point, I won’t pretend otherwise, I’m not fully freed from their hold on me yet). My mother managed to mumble something positive and my father’s go-to response was “What would you like me to say?”
Clearly, I couldn’t count on them for enthusiasm, so I managed that on my own because of that feeling… pfff, that taste of freedom. It was undeniable.
Over time, I’ve experimented with different hair lengths, cuts, and even different colors (all the colors, please!!). It might seem like a minor thing, but it was an act of rebellion, a way of staying true to myself—whatever that means. There’s nothing quite like cutting my hair short and cutting all that (metaphorical) weight away. I know that long hair is still very entangled with ideas of femininity and beauty—not just in my culture—but there’s nothing more feminine or beautiful than that feeling of freedom.
Freed from bullshit societal ideas and people’s control.
Short hair, I really don't care.
