Your beautiful hair!” I experienced my first bout of disapproval with my mother, often soft and doting in years past, when she expressed her dissatisfaction with my handiwork mere hours after the fact. Coincidentally, or perhaps very much not, I was barely treading water in a sea of seemingly never-ending mental illness and found myself hospitalized mere weeks after my haircut. I had replaced my twelve inches with twice as many pounds of carbohydrate-laden hospital fare; crippling self-doubt and an intolerance for cold temperatures left me hiding from myself in layers of dark, loose clothing. In the first, tender month of my nineteenth year, I found I was, quite unknowingly, veering towards …show more content…
Both lamented the perceived foolishness that lost me my locks, and were unsteady on the rapid change in my features. I was, for the most part, unaware of how drastically I had changed, distracted by the overwhelming depression I was fighting my way out of. It was unimaginable to my family that I had chosen to deprive myself of my hair; their disbelief merely reinforced the important of gender cues. A woman’s long, flowing hair is a hallmark of her gender and femininity. Despite the fact that people of all genders favoring hairstyles of many kinds, the cultural understanding has not been swayed. Short hair is masculine, regardless of the gender of the person sporting it. One quiet morning, I found myself dead center of an occurrence I had only heard horror stories of. Sullenly standing in line at an unnamed red and white retailer, a high-pitched, curious voice drifted past my ears as mother and child strolled by. “Is that a boy or a girl, momma?” While I took no real offense to the exchange, it made tangible an idea that I had been previously hesitant to dwell on. Had I taken my desire to forsake my gender too far? More importantly, I asked myself a question I am still understanding the answer to today: what did I lose alongside my