why can't i cut my hair?

Since I was around ten years old I have wanted, almost threatened, to cut my hair. I dreamed of the day I could slice my hair to my ears and see the pieces fall to my heels. But I would never do it and I couldn’t tell you why. This dangerous urge to cut my hair was first noted by my mother, and quickly attributed to a teenage rebellion. I would mindlessly sit through my classes, and begin snipping at my ends. It was a shabby job. I used safety scissors.

“What are you doing to your pretty hair?” my mother lamented, “Wait till your father comes home to see this!” So I’d wait. He walked through the door and shrugged.

“I don’t notice a difference.” I smiled.

This habit of mine carried on through middle school. Every year my yearbook would show a different haircut. I went through long hair, short hair, bangs and bobs. I couldn’t keep the same hair for long. Then I hit puberty and my hair began curling.

My mother was thrilled at the change, “So pretty. You’re going to be thankful for this later look at how pretty your hair is.” All I saw was frizz.

I couldn’t take care of it, I barely had the patience to look at it. I just wanted all the strands off of my head. Then began the products. I’d rub coconut scented conditioner through it in the mornings, and let the curls grow past my shoulders. This felt uncomfortable. Quarantine hit and my habit resumed. I cut bangs and choppy layers in my bathroom. My mom was appalled. I felt free. It almost became a stress relief, snipping away whenever I wanted to change. I didn’t understand the need to look presentable. I never noticed anyone else’s hair, so they probably wouldn’t notice mine. At least, that’s what I thought until sophomore year when I got a boyfriend.

“I like your hair long,” he said, “It suits you.”

“Really? I’m sick of it. Was thinking of cutting it to my shoulders.” I replied nonchalantly. He paused and frowned.

“Really? I don’t think so. You should keep it like this it’s pretty.” I shrugged and began wearing it back in a bun. He liked it down, but it bothered me. When I got stressed, I began snipping again. I kept it like that for months. It ended and I chopped my hair. I smiled at my reflection in the mirror, all better. But months later, I had another opinion.

“No, don’t cut your hair.” This was stern.

“Why? It’ll be medium-length and I’ll curl it, it’ll look good.”

“…”

“You’ll still like how I look, right?”

“…I’ll need to get used to it. Just keep it long okay? It makes you look more feminine.”

“Oh. Okay.” I kept my hair long for a few more months. I began feeling the familiar itch on the back of my neck. I couldn’t recognize myself with long hair, but he could. And I didn’t want to look like a little boy. But I got tired of this, it ended. So it goes.

I had another opinion soon, one that let me cut my hair. It ended. A couple weeks later I cut my hair, the shortest I’ve ever gone. Boys looked at me less, I felt free.

“I’m so happy I cut it.”

“GOOD. You’ve always wanted to cut it short you should’ve earlier.”

“Yeah I just didn’t want to look too…you know…”

“I know. Well…you do look more androgynous.”

“Yes, I know. I’m glad.” It feels like I’m telling everyone.

I had always ranted to my friends about cutting my hair to my ears. They bet I wouldn’t do it, I was the boy who cried wolf. And I probably won’t do it for a long time. I’m in high school, I’ll look less girly, boys will like me less, maybe a girl would like me more. For now I’ll keep snipping.