Chelsea, Interrupted

“Hair is everything. We wish it wasn’t so we could actually think about something else occasionally. But it is. It’s the difference between a good day and a bad day. We’re meant to think that it’s a symbol of power, that it’s a symbol of fertility. Some people are exploited for it and it pays your fucking bills. Hair is everything.” – Fleabag.

I first consciously cut my hair short when I was in the 2nd grade. Shoulder length, which wasn’t a huge jump from my hair before. After that, it was a pixie cut. I’m not sure what exactly inspired it, but it was the gateway into my obsession with short hair. I was in 5th grade when I first shaved my head. It took a lot of begging, and a lot of sheer confidence that comes with just being a kid, and I loved every second of it. The attention felt rewarding. Even if it wasn’t positive, it felt powerful to have made this decision myself–to have expressed myself entirely on my own terms.
After this, my mom forced me to grow my hair out. My mom always had an obsession with hair. She’s bleached hers since she was in middle school, leaving it now thin and broken. I watched her cycle through different stylists, shampoos, and routines leaving her always, always unsatisfied. I got my hair from my dad, its thick, curly black sea a stark contrast from hers. She lived vicariously through it, so trying to cut my hair was a terribly sore subject. I would bring it up and she would cry.
Until a few months ago, I’ve had to hide every haircut I’ve gotten from my parents. I make an unsuspecting friend take me to the salon, or for my most recent cut, just give them the clippers. I think my obsession with short hair is a genuine want to express myself, but I don’t doubt that a part of me is just rebelling–wanting to claim my hair as mine. Now my hair is a grown out buzz cut. Even worse, it’s bleached blonde. When my mom finally found out, I was met with a simple sigh. I won.