Feminism & Hair

I wrote about hair before, but now I approach the subject with newly exposed eyes, as I have just had my long hair shorn off. Not completely, but enough to move from the long hair category to the short hair category. The reason I am writing about it - apart from the shallow fact that it is of interest when one changes one's appearance - is that I have had a time-warpish experience since the new do. People around me are commenting on my appearance. The word "glamorous" has been used. Yesterday, "sexy," "wow," and other flattering exclamations floated by, like a hot-fudge sundae suddenly presenting itself on an otherwise bleak and dusty day.

Maybe because I work in a school, it reminded me of high school: the attention, the compliments, the utter fear of not looking good enough at every moment. One time my boyfriend showed up for a date and told me my neck was dirty. How disgusting. How mortifying. It was dried-gray-skin dirt that I hadn't noticed. So much for the shower, the hour I'd spent on the face, the ass in the pants, the hair. I scuttled my unattractive self into the bathroom. I could barely see what he meant, scrambling my eyes over as far as they could go, my head turned askew to scan the mildewed neck in the mirror. I scrubbed at my skin with a rough wash cloth and soap. We headed out to dinner and all night, I queried him. Or maybe I started to, but instead I thought about it obsessively. I can't remember. I was so anxious about my repulsive neck, that I was oblivious to whatever else happened.

How is this related to feminism? I thought I finally didn't care as much about my appearance. As I write this, I know I really don't. I thought that other peoples' opinions of my appearance didn't matter as much. And they don't. But there is still a certain satisfaction in getting the attention, and a crumbling in my gut as the inevitable looms somewhere ahead of me. Tomorrow, next week, two weeks, I'll have to go back to thinking about my actual life and what I truly feel. I'll have to think about reality, instead of giggling with a friend about how cute I am. In high school, I hid my depression behind a pretty face and a preoccupation with dieting. My life was an utter cliche. Nevertheless, it felt unique, hidden, and embarrassing at the time. It felt energizing to get the attention and unnerving not to.

My life is good now, but if I am so giddy that I am breezing around thinking about a haircut, I suspect that I'm in for the same old news. It's only a face.

Okay, You Can Comment Now!

Apologies, readers! Apparently, there are a few of you out there. I discovered that my settings were not allowing for comments and that problem has been rectified. So please feel free to say whatever you would like to say, as that is that is the idea, right? One person said she feared her responses were too lady-like. Hardly! Prim is acceptable. I always hated the idea of the anti-clique clique, or the pretentious way we often say other people are pretentious. Have I done that? I hope not. All are welcome to write from the heart, the kidney, the middle finger, or the elegant hand, as the case may be.