Short Hurr, Learned Not to Curr

As a girl who has never been completely confident with her femininity, I often wonder where my fiery streak of feminist attitude came from. Middle school, a naturally traumatizing time period, for me, meant a skewing of my ideas of what was considered “feminine”. I went through many years of public education with my school yard crushes passing me by for the other girls. You know, the ones that “blossomed” early. My crane legs and training-bra-until-high-school didn't get me very far with these lady killers. I believe this outsider point of view on femininity and sexuality from a young age caused me to develop this “feminist” stand-offish attitude. I rocked the Avril Lavgine tie in middle school. I wore boys’ undershirts for half of high school. And I had a pair of high top converse that I wore religiously. Even to prom.

As I “blossomed” into a young woman, which meant finally graduating to a B-cup, I developed a fine collection of combat boots and body piercings. Any guy that didn't like me because I didn't adhere to Western standards of beauty was brushed off as a male chauvinistic pig. You must be some close-minded asshole not to like me and my stubborn refusal to wear pink. However, there was one archaic standard of female beauty that I could not shake. My hair. Every time I had to get even a centimeter of a trim, I thought somehow this Supercuts barber was going to shear away my identity as a woman all together. I refused to change my hair. It was long. And it would stay long. Because it made me feel attractive. Once it got to “porn star” or “mermaid” length, I basically became a true woman. And for a girl who doesn't wear anything remotely flattering to a female body shape, I needed at least one way to physically resemble a woman.

Fast forward to some mid-college career summer identity crisis and I get the ingenious idea to go blonde. It was part desperate plea to attract an ex who always insisted I’d look good as a blonde and part summer boredom. Well given my extensive background in beauty regimens, note the sarcasm, attempting to bleach my own  12-inch-long hair turned out fabulous. And brassy. And damaged. I tried to play it off with the attitude that “it’s just hair”. But I knew how much those luscious locks meant to me. I tried to keep the blonde as long as I could without losing my mind from the breakage that littered my bathroom floor. Finally, I said “Fuck it” and chopped it all off. Okay not all, but a good 5 inches which to me was the equivalent of removing my ovaries. 

After that initial chop, I got more and more ballsy with my hair. I kept cutting it shorter and trying new things. Once I didn't feel "traditionally" beautiful, it freed up my mind to recreate my ideals of beauty. I made myself uncomfortable and then slowly learned how to become comfortable and confident with a look that wasn't as traditionally feminine. So ladiez, if you want a fun social experiment and to challenge your self confidence chop your hurr off!