CAN A HAIRCUT CHANGE YOUR LIFE?
They say a woman who cuts her hair is about to change her life.
I recently underwent a dramatic, transformative haircut - from a mid-80’s curly football mullet (falsely advertised as the Mica Arganaraz curly fringed shag), to an uber-short, head hugging, scalp unforgiving, pixie cut. I now know the shape of my head after being in the dark for so long. Slightly oblong and tiny. Kind of like a pigeon. A dramatic change. Yet, miraculously: Same woman. Same life.
Reactions have been a joy to watch. The unabashed shell-shock in some eyes. Others squirming uneasily to venture out a limp compliment, or the falsely casual and shrill pitched “ohhhhh, you cut your hair!” followed by the insincerely comforting “But don’t worry, it will grow out!” Thanks chum! Men unsurprisingly have been less enthusiastic, venturing a gruff choke, avoiding eye contact and anxiously fondling their spouses’ intact manes…a visceral reassurance that they have not veered off into middle-aged-crisis-ness!
There have been some supporters of course. Women who give the haughty scan over and curt nod of approval, my fellow conspirators of cool (hey, if I can’t bask in some not entirely self-fabricated glory, then what’s the point really?) Ok. So, asides from my husband and a random saleswoman at Bath & Bodyworks, no one really likes my new haircut. But no matter. I do. A lot. And I like what it represents - for ultimately something did shift inside to propel me to undertake this oh so brave, bold, selfless move ;)
I attribute it to a self-imposed sense of personal confrontation, pulsing away against inertia and the rut of complacency I was allowing myself to wallow in. Yes. A lot of “self” going on here, because I do believe that we associate a great deal of who we are and our perceptions of femininity and beauty to our hair. Hiding behind it at times and allowing it to define our outward appearance even it no longer ties up with our internal monologue. I had outgrown my curls. And in order to for me to grow into the version of the woman I most associated myself with, I had to ironically cut them off.
I pretend to sound brave, buoyed by confidence, but that couldn’t be further from the truth! My initial haircutting séance was a near disaster, with me on the verge of a nervous breakdown, begging my merciless, and frankly unimpressed hairdresser to stop mid-way. Thankfully, being French, she lulled me back to sanity with her pitiless contempt. And I just really wanted her to like me, so I got my shit together and feigned self-control.
The rest my dear readers (plural, cause I’m optimistic), is not history, but rather a really good lesson in self-discovery. For starters, I have a revived fondness for femininity. My fail-safe 70’s suave uniform of double denim doesn’t hold as well, skewing more towards gawky adolescent teenage boy, rather than haut androgyne. Now, I need a good heel to pull it together, a silk shirt with a hint of clavicle and dainty jewelry to offset the boyishness.
Strangely, I find myself gravitating to coyishly girly dresses and slinky slips, items that were not part of my sartorial vernacular. Florals still feel a tad twee, whereas ruffles conjure up exciting new adventures in proportion – balancing out my pigeonesque head with a bit of directional flounce. Large earrings, contrary to the popular adage of accentuating the face fared poorly, invoking the likeness of a gaudy Christmas ornament. I’ve had to reconsider my relationship with make-up, which in my prior “hair-full” life, was limited to a dusting of blush and a dab of lippy, given my proclivity to resemble Gloria Esteban with my big head of curls and perpetual tan. Today, clean shaven, a strong lip or a smoky eye look oddly at ease.
What’s been most interesting to me is coming to terms with an honest depiction of myself, that which is more considered, immediate and true. Having never associated myself with the standardized or conventional notion of “pretty”, rolling around more comfortably in jolie-laide, my newly shorn hair is testament to that sensibility. Almost a commitment to it, allowing me to really own and flex myself in an aesthetic that I have always been drawn to from afar. It’s an almost immature adolescent pride that I take in not being everyone’s cup of tea, exploring new codes of femininity that have paradoxically flourished as a result of my gamine ‘do. The whole “hommegirls” tribute to girls who dress like boys who sometimes dress like girls feels like a good fit. A little bit fluid, with some gender bender styling here and there…Pairing oversized tailoring with wispy negligee as outerwear, provoking a bit of imagination and igniting a “féminin-masculin” spark.
To cut a long story short (pun fully intended), I was heading out of the gym after an exceptionally gratifying yoga class, all chakras in place, walking tall with that post asana smugness, where I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the window. Rather than recoil, I smiled – content with the close-cropped iteration winking back at me as a fully realized version of…myself.
So, if you’re still reading this, take heed. A haircut may not change your life - but it can give you the impetus to be closer to the woman you want to be. And that’s a good enough reason for me.