Today was a day of self-recognition. I’ve been wearing it all day like a snug jumper, cozy against all offensive weather. Today, I realized that I'm not just an expression of art but I'm the whole damn gallery of art! An exhibition admired, misunderstood, poured over, and inhaled. This very mood paints the walls and floors of all the places I belong, the ceilings and windows too. I feel like I’ve been projected through a lens, displaying multitudes of my transformations, and like with all good pieces of art, I’m not yet finished.
Patriarchal society and its troublesome limbs have a long way to go before being comfortable with women loving themselves. Or perhaps just being comfortable with women in general. It’s a sad reality that this is communicated to young girls at their very first swipe of oxygen; be subservient, be second, be less than, be objectified, be whatever man tells you to be. However, some of us luckier girls, usually those surrounded by strong matriarchal figures in our adolescence, are taught to revolt against gender-based oppression. Women’s oppression. We’re taught that being comfortable with ourselves isn’t only a superpower, but a birthright owed to us. And that’s what today was. A day to shove two dagger-shaped fingers into the patriarchy as I repossess my full glory.
Today, I had my hair cut. I watched with a compounded reaction as the severed braid swung between the hairdresser's fingers. Purged of the weighty locks before an audience, they each gasped and wheezed with excited commentary. Someone even called me brave, which momentarily confused me, until I remembered how much misogyny is combed into women’s hair. The detached hair was hurried to a backroom and set aside for donation. It reminded me of a 90s horror movie when masked nurses with ill intentions would remove newborns from teen mothers, disappearing out of sight. As with those mothers, I watched as far as my sight would allow.
It was quite a strange experience losing so much of my identity in one go. Not to mention losing the extra weight from my shoulders and back. For reference, my hair was a lion’s mane of thickness, coiled and unmanageable, that fell below my waist. Think Cousin It but with more split ends. To say that I'm very attached to my hair is an understatement. Perhaps I'm more attached than what's considered reasonable to some. Hair has always been emblematic of my culture; a symbol of life and power. It’s explained throughout our mythology as something sacred, such as the Seleucid queen Berenice II of Egypt; a Macedonian Greek from the Hellenic culture, who sacrificed her hair in exchange for the safe return of her husband. Or Medusa, one of three Gorgon sisters, whose cruel fate was to have her beauty transformed into that of a monster; her luscious hair replaced by a scalp of villainous snakes. Or as seen with Nisus, whose purple lock of hair flowed with divine power and sorcery. Our hair’s connected to something far greater than ourselves and tampering with it is an intimidating venture.
But my hair had become exasperating. An impossible object that was always in my way. One day I realized it was less of a superpower and more of an archrival; a smothering vine, mapping my body and asphyxiating it with prickly curls. Buried beneath the copious bulk, veiled and secreted, I was invisible. The more compliments I received about my “womanly crown of curls” the greater the urge to dismantle the preconceived notions that hair equates femininity. No, I’m not less of a woman without a straddling mane. Hair doesn’t define womanhood.
After months of convincing myself to take the plunge, I settled into the hairdresser’s chair with steady terror and rampant excitement. Sheared hair fell from me like dumbbells. There was a thunderous liberty to my pruning, despite the small ounce of regret at overhearing my ancestors talk amongst themselves, questioning my sanity as the hairdresser severed my source of power with rainbow-colored scissors, and as each clump fell, so did all patriarchal definitions of femininity. It felt wonderful.
Today, within all its extraordinariness, was a wonderful day of self-recognition. I’m reconnected. I’m re-energized. In truth, there’s a wonderful emancipation through the cathartic mission of chopping off someone’s barnet (British slang for hair) that isn’t celebrated or encouraged enough amongst women. Sometimes, fighting the patriarchy is big work. Robust, meaningful, frontline work. And sometimes, we fight patriarchy by simply cutting our hair. An example of this can be seen in the protest of Iranian women, who publicly unveiled and cut their hair in remonstration of the inhumane murder of a 22-year-old Kurdish woman, Mahsa Amini. Mahsa Amini was murdered for not wearing her veil adequately, exposing some of her hair.
European-esque hair, long and natural, covered by scarves or wigs depending on religion and culture, preferably blonde and straight, or lightly wavy, is the patriarch's determination of femininity, obedience, and modesty. Anything outside of that is the patriarch’s reflection of a defective woman. And in case you didn’t know by now, yes, the patriarchy is as racist as they are misogynistic, and in between weaponizing women’s hair, they also police African-American hair. So much so that legislation was introduced to address hair discrimination against African-American workers in the workplace.
The hair of the matter is this: hair – women’s hair – is an avenue of political expression. It is solely ours to use as an expression of our individualized identities. By cutting my hair today, I haven’t only challenged patriarchal norms while redefining femininity, but I have also gained a sense of empowerment with my forever-deepening identity. Today, I realized that I'm not just an expression of art, nor am I just the whole damn gallery of art, but I am the artist too.
(Artwork by Laura Tietjens)
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