I cut my hair and do you still love me

Exploring grief through hair and learning to stop dissecting myself like a frog

I used to have hair down to my hips. I never really was super intentional about growing it that long, it kind of just happened. I loved it for a while. I loved taking care of it, brushing it, letting it cover my back and body. I didn’t really know it at the time, but my long blonde hair was also becoming a sort of pacifier for all the heaviness I was experiencing the past few years. It became a way to hide, a way to feel like I “knew” myself, a way to feel beautiful. It was a false prophet I followed hoping that it would lead me to salvation.

These feelings heightened after a heartbreak and I quickly became obsessed with the idea of “preserving” myself as the person I was throughout this 4 year relationship. I felt so wobbly and uncertain of my souls value to others, so I chose something physical and attached it to…well, everything. I picked at my scalp and studied my hair in the mirror for hours a day, flooded with the anxiety that it was falling out or not long enough. I’d scroll through old photos of myself and I’d have a panic attack if I felt it didn’t look exactly the same as it did when this person loved me. I’d buy expensive hair products and serums just to feel relief that lasted a single shower. I was thrust into the unknown and to cope I turned so inward you could see all my nerves buzzing at once. I craved safety and so I built a prison out of myself. Nothing could enter, and I may never leave. But at least here! Here is where I was loved! And held! So here is where I must stay!

Whenever I experience something large and painful, I fold in on myself. I grasp for some sort of control, and so I rip myself into pieces and study them. I hold myself to the sun and burn. I become the control group of a never ending experiment, constantly checking every crack and crevice of myself for signs of change to kill and eat. I become so desperate for relief from the unknown that I cannibalize myself, when I really need to just sit and feel everything. But, I grew up so aware of myself and how unpredictable others can be, that I became the only thing I knew how to control. I began to discover that if I freeze myself in the body I lived in before the bad thing happened, then I would never have to hurt, right? If I don’t acknowledge this version of me and the pain that is changing her, then she isn’t real and I can go about my day without crumbling to the floor. Long hair = time machine. Long hair = easier to love. I think this is a process that has so many layers to it that would take me 45 pages to explain (ie; hair as it ties to girlhood, the patriarchy, identity, beauty standards, purity, etc.), and it’s something that I feel great embarrassment and shame about. But, it’s what I know and what I am constantly working on unlearning. It’s so backwards, I know, to further wound the thing that needs saving in hopes of avoiding more pain. We just cannot hate ourselves into newness or peace.

So I knew I needed to change, even in the small stupid way of cutting my hair. I knew it was needed when I started counting the strands I’d pull out or sit in the mirror measuring my braids to see if they changed from the day before. I couldn’t go on basically mummifying myself and allowing something as simple as hair be the indicator of my worthiness and safety in this world! I had to switch timelines. I had to give the future me a chance for freedom from herself and everyone she’s ever loved. So, with a belly full of grief, fear and exhaustion (and help from my lovely, patient hairdresser Natalie) I chopped my hair. (disclaimer: I am a drama queen, so my hair is not up to my ears, but it does rest gently a little past my collarbones which I think is a large jump from once being at my waist okay….okay????)

And how do I feel now? I’d say…..neutral with a twinge of relief. It wasn’t the large epiphany I was hoping for (because duh, I still have so much work to do in my soul that a haircut cannot but the only cure) but it is nice not to feel so anxious and obsessive anymore. Sure, I’m still playing around with it constantly and seeing how it feels, but it’s also nice to sit in that discomfort a bit. I cry often, but I think that’s just my natural response to change and loss. I’m mourning a girl who loved someone so intensely and honestly, and was loved back by that someone, ya know? But, I made a decision and I saw it through despite my fears that 1. I wouldn’t be able to handle my pain without distraction and 2. That no one would ever love me again with 6 inches less hair on my head.

I no longer can use my hair to cover up my body and hide, which is a big step as well. A symbol of welcoming vulnerability and allowing others to see me, I guess. I think a lot of women use their hair as a sort of blockade, knowing some will only see that and nothing further. Sure, you’re not seen fully, but then you’re also not disliked fully. I’m also learning what femininity means to me now that I don’t have a cloak of hair that everyone commented on and strange men praised me for. Will I struggle some days? Probably, but now I have created new space for me to flow into and fill with other things besides praise and romance, which is exciting. Now, I must let this new-ish version exist and I must do my best to remind her that she is meant to evolve. I know now that my ideas of “perfection” and “preservation” will never shield me from pain or loss or loneliness. It only keeps me distracted from the things I’m actually grieving and keeps me in an endless cycle of poking and prodding, waiting for peace. Peace that only comes when I learn to just effin’ exist.

I will be honest and admit that I do catch myself daydreaming about what it’d be like if this person ever saw me again. I wonder what they would think and if they’d still say I was beautiful. And then I go buy myself a matcha and call my mom and remember that it’s no longer about that. It’s about knowing no one has more power over my self-worth than I do. That I am both my own god to worship and my own evil. It’s odd to know myself better through something as trivial as cutting my hair. It’s even stranger to realize I have such self-destructive hands that pick flowers and hold babies and hug my friends. I am teaching them to hold me gently now, and I pray they listen.

I’m still going through such a strange and tumultuous time in my inner world, and every day I fight tooth and nail with myself to not find the next thing to obsess about in hopes for control/avoidance of my hurt. My birthday is soon (I’m a taurus so I’m sure this all makes more sense! oh and my Saturn return is coming!!) and I think my next journey will be one about letting go. Of finding softness for myself and welcoming whatever I choose to show up as. Short hair! Long hair! Maybe I’ll get another tattoo! Or bleach my eyebrows! Who the hell knows, but love will find me on a Friday in my kitchen regardless.

I have such a long way to go that it’s exhausting to think about sometimes, but I will never fully leave myself and that is a comfort. Part of me will be that long haired naive girl forever, I may even find my way back to her some day, but I will exist as many other things before that happens.

Well, thanks for listening to me rant about hair and heartbreak again for the millionth time! This felt a little silly for me to write about cause it’s just….hair but it’s also energy and identity so I thought I’d just share my little journey. Would love to hear your thoughts and experiences too with hair, heartache, change, etc. all of it!!

much love,

Bella