I GOT MY HAIR CHOPPED!
...above my shoulders, which I never thought in my life I’d choose to do.
I have been attached to my long hair for as long as I can remember.
I always dreamed of growing my hair out as a little girl, but I was forced by my mother to have short hair up until the end of middle school. I spent my childhood years envying the girls who had enough hair to brush passed their shoulders. To flip around. To look “girly.” When I was finally old enough to courageously voice what I wanted to do with my hair, making the decision to keep it long became more of a rebellious act than pure desire. I think my inner child held in so much rage from being stripped of the freedom to express myself in the way that I wanted, and I definitely took that out on my mother.
It’s so confusing as a child of immigrants to grow up being oppressed by not only the system but by your own family. I can’t tell you the amount of times it has triggered me to hear my mother say “put your hair up” or “you look like a bruha” (witch in Tagalog) or “how do you expect to have a man court you looking like that?” once I finally grew out my hair. I was frustrated by her continued attempt to control me even after she started to let me do what I want. But on a deeper level, I detested the way history and being an immigrant in America shaped the way she controlled herself. I knew she always meant well, that in some twisted way it was all “out of love,” to protect me, to make sure I was liked, as I’m sure the way she spoke to me is the way she spoke to herself; but since reading bell hooks’ All About Love, I’ve developed a much deeper understanding of what love is actually supposed to feel like. However, I know my mother has not yet arrived to the same expanded perspective (she may never arrive, nor am I attached to her arriving) and I do my best to remember that—to meet her where she is at in her journey. Still, I always think back to how disheartening it was for me as a little girl (for all little girls) to grow up with so many mixed messages of what it means to be “beautiful” in this world. To be docile to this is to allow internalized oppression and toxic standards of beauty to keep getting passed down to future generations. Therefore, I do my best to stay awake and check myself—first and foremost—in order to play my part in breaking the curse. To keep engaging in the surgical process of decolonizing my mind by staying curious and challenging the narratives that get thrown my way.
Upon entering my third decade of life, I grew tired of my long hair, and I was starving for change. A new story. A signifier to mark a new era. At 30 and 31, as much as I wanted to chop my hair off to a length above my shoulders, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. At first I think it was because short hair traumatized me as a child. I realized over time that in a sense, long hair did too. Because while I always rebelled against my mother’s need to control my appearance, a huge part of me still wanted to please her. Be accepted by her. Gain her approval. I suppose that I’ve held conflicting emotions about my hair my entire life.
Labels can really fuck us up. As Phoebe Waller Bridge impassionately stated in an episode of her phenomenal and hilarious show Fleabag (to the hairdresser that she perceived fucked up her sister Claire’s hair): “Hair is everything.” And it is. Because our culture said so. And we have been brainwashed to believe it.
When my talented friend Celeste, who luckily also happens to be my hairdresser, suggested that I hold, touch, and connect with my hair before we chopped it off, I listened. I did this as she lovingly walked me through a guided meditation and tears slowly began to spill down my cheeks. She had me envision—sticking to my skin—every label I had ever clung to around my hair. A lot of what I imagined had to do with having long hair, but I was also reminded me of the self hatred I carried during the time in my life I was forced to have short hair. The mean and horrible comments people used to make when I had my bowl shaped haircut. She then asked me to imagine those labels being peeled back, unsticking, and falling off. Who was I underneath all of that? Who was I separate from my hair? Even if it was only momentarily and fleeting, I remembered. I reconnected. I returned to the me underneath all the labels. And I cried even harder. When I had first sat on that salon chair, I wasn’t 100% confident that I would actually go through with cutting my hair as short as I did. But in that moment of stillness, I knew. I knew that no matter how I felt after the cut—whether I hated it or loved it—I was ready to experience a new unknown.
I am stoked to say that I ended up loving it. Not necessarily for the way it looks (although I do love the way it looks) but rather, for the experience of being able to breathe new life into myself and shift my perspective around what hair means to me. I feel freer. I feel lighter. I feel like I rid myself of all the dead weight I was carrying around all year.
Intrinsically, I knew it was time to shed. I just needed a little help from a trusted friend and Spirit to complete the assignment. “What’s your intention for today?” Celeste asked me while she washed my hair and gave me the best scalp massage of my life. It took me a while to find my answer, but a few seconds later I responded: “To receive.” And receive I did.
Two years of deep inner work and I finally had an exterior transformation to match the invisible work I had done on myself. Or at least something close to it. The secret work that was done—is being done—is so much bigger than any haircut could ever portray.
At the end of the same Fleabag episode mentioned above, Anthony proves that even though Claire was horrified by the results, he indeed give her the exact haircut she asked for. After the sisters both comedically respond “sorry Anthony” with a touch of embarrassment and humility, recognizing that their anger was misplaced, Anthony responds: “If you want to change your life, change your life. It’s not going to happen in here.”
I’m pleased that my transformation happened in the order that it did. The new cut became more of a finishing coat to this phase of inner work I was able to do in the first two years of my 30s (just right before I turn 32 in less than a month).
It is true that the real work always begins within. Internally is the place we will continue to discover that without a doubt, hair is not everything.
P.S. This week’s newsletter felt a little forced. I was not in the mood to write at all before beginning. After getting acclimated to a routine for the past four weeks, I had to suddenly break that streak once again because of my rocky and inconsistent living situation. I’ve been jumping around cities for the past few months (that’s as much as I’ll say about that for now). It always becomes a little stressful to be unsure of where I’m going to sleep. Not because I’m homeless, but because when my OCD flares up, I cannot simply sleep anywhere—at least not comfortably. Regardless, I felt it was important to post because I’ve been wanting to strengthen my relationship to writing again and practice the art of imperfection. As a reminder to those of you who take the time to read and a reminder for myself, this newsletter will not be created under any capitalistic energy. (If I ever feel like it’s more of a burden than a joy, then I will not post that week). This is not a place for me to be perfect but rather to process whatever I’m working through on a weekly basis. I commit to allowing myself to get it incredibly wrong. To write statements that may not make any sense at all if that feels right to share. This season of my life is about learning to Rest. Being gentle. Being kind. Being transparent about not nearly having anything quite figured out. And for making space to discover what the next phase of my life is going to look like. If you’re reading—if you’ve been reading—I’m so thankful that you’re here to receive. What an incredible journey life can be when we allow the intimate layers of ourselves to be seen.