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Hello friends,
Almost hourly, I can be spotted clasping my hands together and running them on my hair from my forehead to the base of my neck. It is my new form of meditation, accessible at any moment of the day without drawing too much attention. I see dudes doing this all the time, now I know what they’re doing. It’s their secret call to mental wellness without resorting to Aura, crisscrossing applesaucing, and chanting “Om.” Dudes with buzz cuts, I'm on to you. Don’t be weirded out if I wink.
Two months ago, I shaved my head down to a 1.5. For those who have never shaved their head, this number is the clipper guard size. A 1.5 leaves about 3/16th of an inch of hair. 1.5 is directly in the middle of the 0 to 3 clipper size for military cuts. I then bleached what hair I had left, drew six pink hearts on my new canvas, and filled in the backdrop with a contrasting pink.
There has been a lot of speculation about why I have done this, some of it rude, some worrisome, and some amusing. There was the person(s) who asked if I was channeling my inner lesbian and although I am flattered that I give the vibe I am still in camp penis. There was a bundle of people speculating that I might have cancer, nope, it is not cancer, but my heart goes out to anyone losing their hair to cancer. I can only imagine how vastly different it is to lose your hair compared to having it removed intentionally. My favorite funny one was a lady at a bathroom rest stop. In all seriousness, she looked deep into my soul and said, “Ah, menopause.” I know, we all lose our shit one way or another,” as she rubbed her head and walked out the door. I love this one too, but not the reason. Today, I am here to tell you the big WHY(s) for choosing to cut my shoulder-length, pink hair to a 1.5 buzz cut.
I remember the first time I saw a woman with a buzz cut. It was the very early 90s. I was living in NYC for the summer while in university, doing an internship. I was at a photoshoot, and the photographer had a picture of Sinead. My first thought was, “Wow, she is badass.” At the time, it never dawned on me that I could shave my head or that one day I might be the middle-aged version of Sinead (may she RIP, what a force). She was radiant and strong, traits I was trying to find and honor in myself as a young 20-something in a world that wanted me to behave and look pretty.
I would spend the next 30 years trying to remove hair from all the body parts that the world felt were unfit for women. It started with mild electrolysis of the upper lip and advanced to an obsession with removing all bodily hair, minus the head, of course, because that is where women were “supposed” to have hair. Men could grow hair all over their chest and a forest on their ass, but if I had one stray chin hair, I was considered barbaric.
This obsession came with a side dish of pain, much like dipping your maguro sashimi in soy sauce, and getting a brain-cleansing pitch from the one dab of wasabi that did not mix well. At the first of each month, I would spread Eagle on Azota’s waxing bed for the full monty. More than once, the thought of bringing a stick into my visits to bite down on crossed my mind, but instead I opted for f-bombs and a fist pump on the wall, because ladies don’t bite down on sticks like a rabid dog because of a little gardening down south.
Azota was the best waxer in the San Fernando Valley, hidden in a small back room of a strip mall hair salon on Ventura Blvd; she was known far and wide. She would tell me stories of the male sex workers she waxed, who had the biggest dick and who got the most aroused from having hot wax drizzled all over his balls—her exact words. In a very graphic description, she would mime them bracing themselves against the wall as she said, “1, 2, 3,” and ripped like she was pull-starting a lawn mower. They would yell, “fuck yeah, do it again.” Meanwhile, here I was, counting the number of wax streaks lining the walls and imagining what animal they would form if they were a cloud. My daydreaming would break with Azota’s commanding voice, “1, 2, 3,” eyes pinched so tightly that I was surprised my lids never turned inside out. I would then repeat, like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz, but instead of “There’s no place like home,” I would chant, “It’s worth it, it’s worth it, it’s worth it.” But the question always was, “who was it worth it for? I wasn’t putting my face down there.
From waxing, I graduated to laser. In the 1990s, I paid $ 1,400 for a much smaller bikini line. I loved it. No more razor burn, no more shaving before beach days and then feeling the sting of the salt water, no more strays escaping the edges of my barely there bikini. I had found hairless paradise. And that was good enough for a while, until I wanted less down there and less and less, and then the armpits, and then… What would I do once all the hair on my body was gone? Well, spoiler alert: I never graduated to being completely hairless, but one could say I transferred this obsession to my head during the most recent turn of events. But this time, I did it all for myself.
Over the years, I have been known to go my way when it comes to hair. In the late 80s, when everyone was styling their hair with wings, I made sure my wings were the biggest of big, using an entire bottle of Aqua-Net hairspray a week, which probably contributed to my decades-long struggle with allergies. I have had platinum hair, as well as green, blue, purple, and probably a couple of others that I am forgetting. I have shaved 1/4 of my head after losing a bet to Avalon. I have gone grey with a hint of pink, and for the past 10 years, I have held on to pink in varying degrees, lengths, and decorations. I have almost had locks, but withdrew in the name of cultural appropriation, and most recently, I opted for a months-long version of 30 petite pigtails that encompassed every hair on my head. Frankly, this was one of my favorite hairstyles, which is ironic because I chose to cut it all off at this point.
But why buzz it? How about just a new style?
The short answer is I’m bleeding my insides out to my skin. Of course, this is figurative, unless I can convince you that my blood bleeds hot pink, which, frankly, would be cool, but untrue.
I did it to understand.
What is this obsession with women having hair and not just some hair, but long hair, extensions, and preferably blonde? Who am I without hair? Does my hair define me? Do I do my hair for myself, others, or a man? How much of an impact does my hair have on me professionally, how others view me, respect me, and judge me? Do I still feel like me without hair? Do I feel a need to defend what happened to my hair? The jury is still out on all these questions, which will result in a subsequent post in the coming months.
I did it for love.
I was having a conversation about hair with a friend, “D”, and, as always, he got me thinking more deeply. It is truly a gift to have friends who push me to go beyond my invisible boundaries. After this conversation with him, it was not enough to shave my head. I needed it to be symbolic beyond defiance against the patriarch, which it is as well. I have six hearts, and they are a dedication, my insides getting air.
There is one heart for this friend, “D,” who is in “C” treatment, but his heart has evolved into a growing community; fortunately, he is skilled at sharing his heart. There is space for our little friend “E” who is going into surgery next month, our friend “A” who is recovering from a motorcycle accident, and our friend “I” who has dementia. There is also space on this heart for all the rest of you who are going through the “shit” right now.
There is a heart for our kids because they are always in my heart, and as they leave the safe harbor, they will encounter bumps in the real world.
There is a heart for Will and I because, to quote Largo, “we have seen some shit,” and we survived. I never want to forget how grateful I am.
There is a heart for every woman who stops me and says, “I love it. I wish I could do that.” You can! Just do it, it’s that easy.
There is a heart for our four parents, still alive and still well. We are grateful and hope we get another 25 years with them.
And the final heart is for me as I continue through this peri-menopause journey, which has fortunately not got a vice grip on my physical being, but mentally, it is a daily struggle.
I did it to rebel.
I was tired of hair and the atrocity that insists we can have it on our head, but not on other parts.
If you've been around for a while, you know I'm not fond of doing my hair to begin with. I love having it done by someone else, but that is not in my budget. As a result, it is washed every couple of days, only combed on wash days, and subsequently lives as what my generation’s parents called a “rats nest.” I don’t care how it looks or how I look, and I never have for as far back as I can remember.
And the final reason, which only manifested once I buzzed it.
I keep it because it makes people smile.
I have kept it longer than anticipated because it makes people smile, something that is often hard to come by in these trying times. I was sitting in the window of a Chipotle before leaving the States last week, and a man mimed “I love your hair” and pointed to his head as he walked by with the biggest smile on his face.
Kids giggle and then tug at their mommies’ arms to share what they have seen.
Dogs bark.
People stop me on the street for pictures.
But mostly people look at me and smile. My hair brings them joy, and their smiles bring me joy.
I was even at an event here in Siem Reap yesterday, and one of the guests said a friend took a picture of me and shared it in their group chat. She wanted to confirm I was indeed the woman in the image. I was pretty sure that there were not two of us walking around Cambodia with six pink hearts painted on our heads.
When my partner, Will, met me, I had thick, brown hair that fell halfway down my back, and now it is only 2/16th of an inch long. So, how does he feel about this new look? He does not care one bit. Will subscribes to my body, my choice, and finds it super hot that I am bold with my external and internal decisions. In 28 years together, he has not once told me how I should look externally; frankly, this is so damn hot. But let’s face it, I would never be with a man who felt he had a say in how my body looked, never. We are all going to age, and how we choose to do that is crucial to our well-being. Putting restrictions on our partners is grossly unhealthy and, frankly, a lot of pressure.
“I’m going to be just like you when I am your age.”
A college girl in line at the airport
My hair has always garnered a lot of attention, but it seems to have received even more attention in the last year. I’m a 52-year-old woman, dead in general society terms regarding external beauty, but you would never know it by the number of male advances I have received in the last 12 months. More than the last 10 years combined, could be because I have been back in the US or maybe because women thru-hikers are badass, sexy bitches, who knows. The male advances can be annoying, taking up my quiet spaces in public places when I'm trying to work or hike 20 miles a day. I figured a big plus of going practically bold would be increased privacy; however, it has attracted more attention from men under 50. I know, surprising to me as well.
Here is what I have learned from almost two months of a buzz haircut with pink hearts:
The 40-year-olds and younger LOVE it. They comment, want to know why, and offer their own experiences with short hair.
Minorities and women in the middle ages are the most prominent supporters. THE BIGGEST! They say less with words compared to the under-40s, but their eyes and body language say it all, especially for middle-aged women. There is a sadness in some eyes, a longing desire for freedom that for some reason they are unwilling to dance with, a defiance that wants to be ignited and a “fuck yeah,” blessing on what I am doing. I have had more than one person swirl their forefingers in my face, say, “I love it all, the whole look,” and walk away with a huge smile. But I have also had others say, “My husband would never go for it.” These are the most painful to hear. I want to shout, “Then run, girl, run fast,” but I offer a compassionate glance as they jet off.
Men like it, but not white men over mid-50s, of course not ALL white men over 50s, but since I have only had two tell me they like it, I can assume they are not fans. I have always felt that there is a distinct cutoff between those born in the 60s and those born in the 70s and beyond, and their resistance to women stepping outside the box. More indoctrination into the patriarchy and a deeply rooted belief in how a woman should look, a dated paradigm. Some have said, “You do you, but my wife better never do that.”
The more insecure a person is, the more they are fixated on my hair, gossip with others about it, or make rude comments. This is not culturally or gender-linked. Being free of all the “rules” is scary for some, and my heart goes out to these people.
The radicalized religious have approached me more now than ever. They think I need saving, and always come in with a “hey, cool hair.” I answer some questions, and then they come in for the hook. At first, I was patient, but it has happened A LOT in the USA when I am sitting working quietly at a coffee shop or doing groceries, and now I am just annoyed. My response is “I am the last person that needs saving,” and the conversation usually ends right there.
Right now, you might be thinking, but now what? ’ Will she keep it forever? Well, forever is a long time; however, I did think this would be a one-and-done and then I would begin the awkward stage of regrowing it back the next month. I was excited about a pixie cut and then a bob, and so forth. However, to my surprise, I love it and will keep it until I no longer love it. I suspect it will get hard to maintain on the boat, but maybe not. I love the current ease of it, I love how it looks, I love how I feel, freer. I never felt trapped with hair since I did my own thing, so this was a bit surprising, but I will roll with it. And it makes me smile, too.
What did I learn? I am still processing this aspect of the buzz cut. I need more time to digest it all, but I promise to return with an update. How long do you think I will keep it? Would you ever do it? Has a partner of yours done it? How did you respond? Upkeep tricks for other baldies? This was fun. I look forward to hearing your thoughts.
xoxo,
Jess (Sunshine)
p.s. Will cut it initially, but I had to go to the salon to have them clean it up. The second time, I mostly did it myself with some help from Supercuts.
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Really love it Jess, you are so inspiring x
Cela vous va si bien!