Negotiating Identity and Haircuts

Negotiating Identity and Haircuts

In my recent studying of literature, I have seen identity as a central idea. Whether its a people group, a country or a teenage girl, identity negotiation plays a central role.
In the never ending saga of defining and redefining myself, I have found that much of my symbolic identity is found in my hair.
As a young sprout I had a frazzled, unkempt head of blond hair. It was straight as a pin but always tangled, due to the fact that I couldn't be bothered to brush it. Too many fairies to find and dogs to ride for that silly business.
The older I got the darker it became, and I got closer and closer to BROWN HAIR!(Now brunettes don't take offense here). My older sister had been born with brown hair and it suited her lovely green eyes and commanding attitude, but I was a softer sort. My eyes were blue, my skin fair, I needed the blond. I needed to be different. And I was not about to change my favorite Disney princess from Sleeping Beauty to Belle.
Eventually with this dilemma close at hand I tried highlights. My sister pulled my long hair through tiny holes in a white dying cap. I felt golden, fun, light...fake. I let them grow out and vowed to stay true to my color, whatever it was.
The real fun came when I was old enough to care about styling my hair. Due to the aforementioned future bird's nest that was my hair, I had a bob with bangs pretty much all of my childhood. Until one day when I decided that grown up girls had long hair, so I grew mine out.
It reached a point of goofy narcism in the eighth grade, when I would swing my long perfectly straightened locks back and forth in class so I could smell my Herbal Essences shampoo. Yea I thought I was the shit.
A few years down the road I had a change of heart. I decided to give said hair to Locks of Love so some nice bald person could have a semi blond, semi not blond wig. Feeling charitable and bold I watched as the hairdresser whacked off my pony tail like an unruly weed.
When I gazed into the mirror at my new stacked bob I said "Oh my gosh! I look like Wesley from the Princess Bride!". After the first shock I calmed down, but I didn't truly love my short hair until I was in the shower that night. I lathered my scalp with a quarter of the shampoo I used to need and felt my hair slick against my head. It felt amazing. And it looked good too. Never a hair out of place, no need to uber straighten. I had been freed that day. I was converted. Short hair girl for life.
Throughout the rest of high school and into college I played with short hair styles, always sticking close to my classic bob and living it up. Until the threat of orthodontia began to loom over me. I thought to myself, "Well if you're gonna be a brace face you should slim up and let your hair grow or its gonna be a rough year." So down it grew, as I got an expander and a lisp. Longer and longer as my mouth was clamped closed with rubber bands. I hid away in it's length, my sadness, my insecurity rested amongst those long strands.
Until one day I awoke. I said enough. No more status quo, no more blending, no more shame! I will be myself. Back to my bob I went. And I felt lighter, smaller and happier.
When I had returned to my former hair glory, there was still something there, an itching, a yearning. So one day with a picture of Katie Holmes' pixie, I called my friend Hannah. She nervously but steadily gave me my first long pixie haircut and I fell in love. The haircut I had always admired and envied on ladies such as my beloved Julie Andrews or Mia Farrow was finally mine. And I pulled it off. I felt beautiful.
My confidence and joy was not and could not be perfect. Because if you're a girl with a pixie most, if not all guys in your life will ask you why. They shattered my self-contentment with "Has your hair always been like that?" "You should grow it out" and "I really prefer long hair". With comments like this ringing in my ears I came to a dilemma, a choice. Guys or me. Their preferences or mine. Selling out or standing strong.
Then I remembered why I cut my hair, to be different, special, me. When my hair grew long I felt my color fading, I sank into the background, I blended with the rest. So however silly it was or is my hair symbolizes me. It isn't normal, it is not long, but its unique.
So when negotiating our hair length or our identities, the opinion most important is our own. Because whether it's our hair or who we are, we are the ones who have to live with it.