I’ve wanted to cut all my hair off ever since I was told a
bizarre dream by a girl I used to work with. She said that when she got married
(it was specific, she HAD to married – presumably so the man had no escape) she
would cut all her hair off so it would grow back luscious and fresh; she would wear
wigs until she was ready to reveal her untainted hair to the world. I found
this hilarious and strangely appealing; what would it feel like to start over
with your hair? I’ve had red, black, blonde, blue hair, curly, straight and
crimped over the years so it’s fair to say I’d inflicted a fair bit of damage
on my poor head of hair.
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| Pre Baldness Length |
The idea nestled in the depths of my mind and I vowed that
at some point in my life I would shave my head. The idea popped back up after
my first summer working in India. It was the most incredible experience (blog
post coming one day, promise!) and I knew that I wanted to raise as much money
as possible for the next group of volunteers that were going to work with them
– little did I know I’d end up joining them.
So, after not much thought at all, I decided I would shave my hair to
raise money in honour of the Bachpan boys who stole my heart. I wanted to do
something bold, something different than a cake sale, and show the children I
worked with that they meant so much to me I would gladly surrender my hair for
them. I already had a pretty severe undercut as a kind of stepping stone to the
skinhead, which irritated the hell out of the rest of my hair. I was left with
a permanent dreadlock from the shaved section irritating the long hair, so I
kind of had to go through with it after that – it needed evening out! And of
course, this was something I had always thought about, so my reasons for shaving
my hair weren’t entirely selfless; I was curious and charitable all at once.
My friends thought the idea was brilliant and brave,
although I’m sure many of them thought I wouldn’t go through with it. My love
at the time was not so keen on the idea… This is a huge understatement. We were
discussing it over dinner in Paris, arguably the most romantic city in the
world, arguing over my hair. He couldn’t imagine me without hair and didn’t
care to. I was sympathetic at first, his opinion mattered most to me and I
hated the thought that he might not feel the same about me without hair (I
obviously hoped my personality mattered slightly more than my looks but ya
never know), it was a big change. After volleying our points back and forth for
some time I lost patience and told him something along the lines that he would
just have to get used to it, because it was happening. He walked out of the
restaurant for a much needed cigarette break and left me sitting alone in the world’s
most romantic city. With conflicting feelings, as I very much didn’t want to
upset him, but I resolved that this was something I really really wanted to do.
After an incredibly stressful summer (which you can read
about here if you haven’t already) I went for it. I had it all planned out; I would
throw a ‘hair cutting’ party, everyone who donated to my chosen charities would
be able to cut a bit of my hair off throughout the night, the highest bidder
getting the accolade of shaving my head entirely. The reality was that I had a complete
Britney moment. I stood in front of the mirror staring intently at myself in a
way I never really had before and felt the overwhelming urge to do it there and
the. I haphazardly cut chunks of my hair away, a poor friend observing
powerlessly, begging me to stop. It was one of the best things I’ve ever done, and
although it probably wasn’t very healthy to cut all my hair off myself (I don’t
know if there’s ever a good time for that activity really) it felt amazing. I was
hacking away at something that had, unbeknownst to me, been weighing me down. I
felt lighter, both mentally and physically. I didn’t have much control over my
life at this point so I frantically clutched at what belonged to me – my appearance.
The immediate feeling was relief. I’d
talked about it for so long by this point and had finally committed to the
action of cutting. Then there was my physical appearance. My features were
exaggerated much like a Margaret Keane caricature, but in a rather endearing
way. I recognised my face from baby photos; I looked doe eyed and innocent
although all the pain I was going through at that point wasn’t really
happening. The fresh start I had with my hair reflected the fresh start I desperately
needed in life.
The first few weeks of being a peanut were fun. I was
incredibly nervous to see boyfriend after the laceration but he was kind, as
ever. I think even he was taken aback by how much having no hair suited me, and
he enjoyed the bristle brush feeling that comes with having a skinhead. My
lovely housemate dubbed me the ‘polite punk’ and I had strangers approach me to
tell me how they admired it. I felt strangely powerful having no hair, like I’d
somehow managed to snub our modern society’s version and values of beauty; I
still felt feminine and pretty without hair, it was incredibly invigorating.
This feeling lasted a few weeks, much like when you make a drastic change to your appearance (think something like piercings, hair dying or tattoos) and eventually you become accustomed to it, enveloping it into a part of you. This didn’t happen to me. Although I knew it suited me and I’d done it for an incredibly good cause (it raised somewhere between £400-£500 I think) I felt alienated from myself and the enormity of what I had done began to sink in. I’d lust after girls with hair, feeling severe pangs of jealousy. There were days when I couldn’t stand to look in the mirror because I didn’t recognise the girl looking back. If I didn’t wear makeup I looked sick, if I didn’t sleep properly I looked sick, if I cried I looked sick. There are very few photos from this point in my life, and absolutely no selfies. Having no hair, which at first felt liberating, now made me feel exposed and incredibly vulnerable. I felt invisible and overlooked, particularly when it came to boys, even though people stared wherever I went.
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| How I felt I looked majority of the time |
What inspired me to write this post was hearing of thisincredible woman who photographed herself every day for a year after cutting off
all her hair. I honestly could not have done it. Having no hair shattered my
confidence after the initial joy of it. It was this gigantic part of my
identity gone and I struggled for a long time to readjust to my face without
inches of hair covering it. Now, a year and a few months on I feel like
Rapunzel even though my hair is only just below my ears, in some kind of French
schoolgirl bob. I can’t wait for it be shoulder length again, which it should
be by next summer. I always insisted cutting my hair off wasn’t a big deal (“it’s
only hair, it’ll grow back!” must have been said at least 50 times to all the
people who asked me why) but it affected me in ways I didn’t think were
possible. I’m super proud that I did it,
and I wish I’d had the confidence to experiment more with it, but I was so traumatised that I just wanted the short stages to be over
and feel myself again. That was the hard part, not feeling ‘myself,’ which I
realise is ridiculous because how could a haircut change the very fibres of who
you are? For whatever reason becoming a baldie shook me to the core; I desperately
clung to who I was and tried to channel this through my demeanour and a great
deal of eyeliner. I most probably won’t shave it all off again, but for anyone
who is thinking of doing it – go for it. It was the most interesting transition
of my life and as the girl I worked with suspected, your hair grows back
beautifully.
