So, Do Bald Girls Have More Fun?

Issue 014: The rocky road to Toni's first big chop and the epiphanies thereafter

Still from the official music video for “Washed Away” by Kelela

I cut my hair on one of the last days of April this year. It was a drastic change, a goodbye to the consistent shoulder length I've always known and a hello to a low layer of coils. For months, I stressed about taking this leap, terrified I would regret it. I would scroll through inspo pictures for hours on end. I even placed the palms of my hands on my hairline to flatten my then-hairstyle to see how my face would look, my bit of new growth as a prediction for the outcome. I contemplated canceling my appointment as I traveled there (which would not fly, by the way) and anxiously texted my partner as the scissors and clippers came out and still as chunks of my hair lightly hit the floor. Up until the very moment my new look was finalized, I felt uneased, inescapably vulnerable, and dazed by my decision, only to see myself coming out of a shell in real time. To look at my reflection and not recognize who I'm seeing but simultaneously know exactly who that is and feel deeply connected to this image. Vis-à-vis, this image represents a face that has always been loved with many versatile hairstyles, and now, at its rawest or the closest to it, I've unearthed more and more love.

I never had the best relationship with my hair, and as I matured, making strides to build a better one became more vital to me. Long before I was brought into this world, the demonization of Black hair was one of many contributions to forming a vicious society reeking of anti-blackness. I grew up with a mother who was very firm in her language surrounding Black hair, especially mine. "Good hair" wasn't a phrase to use solely for textures different from mine, it simply described healthy hair. Every time I would lift my head from the sink with a towel as she finished washing my hair for me, she'd gush about how striking it was, shrinkage and all. This kind of support was essential to have as a young Black girl, and although I was led astray by the outer mindsets she attempted to prepare me for, I look back with nothing but gratitude for this foundation because, in time, I came right back to it.

Hair holds substantial meaning, especially for Black people. It's larger than individual satisfaction or the lack thereof, and it's a pressing matter for the public in a world where proximity to whiteness holds utmost power. Natural Black hair and representations of cultural expression are met with contempt or objectification in schools, the workplace, public spaces, and even within our own communities. I remember going back and forth with my white dance teacher in high school when deciding the hairstyle my fellow dancers and I had to do for shows because some things were doable for Black girls and others were not; her decisions were absent of discernment. I remember receiving kinder treatment from coworkers and customers when a hairstyle didn't display my natural texture compared to when it did. I remember being mocked on two separate occasions with a raised fist when I wore an afro, one by a coworker and another by a complete stranger as he catcalled. I remember being told by a peer that my hair "isn't supposed to look like that" as I wore a twist out in my predominantly Black middle school. These moments occurred in passing, but the harm isn't brief.

My hair journey has been filled with countless fluctuations as my love for myself in my natural element would run hot and cold. A lengthy inner battle with texturism caused by unavoidable ideals embedded in just about everything is no easy opponent. It's no secret that Black people with 4C hair are seen as the black sheep of the community, notably those with darker skin who wear it naturally without manipulation. It's undesirable and unruly; how dare people accept the hair that grows from their heads and not conform to principles directly linked to Eurocentrism and colonialism? A shocker to many but no longer to me. I've been through many phases: outright hating the appearance of my hair, developing a fixation on changing its form, hiding behind more palatable styles under the excuse of it being easier to manage, and only letting my hair breathe for short periods to avoid retreating to loathing. While these reflect tougher times and recurring setbacks, I've also come to impactful realizations, and what helped me move forward was radical honesty and understanding how nuance applied to my thoughts concerning my hair.

Let's talk hair manipulation. Any style that presents my hair in a way that's different from how it lays on my head without intervention would fall under this term. The same goes for products that provide more defined curls and, obviously, products that chemically alter curls. Manipulation isn't inherently negative. It's necessary for many beloved hairstyles, the ones my mom would do for me in elementary school, occasionally adorned with bobos, barretts, or beads. Braids, puffs, twists, buns, straight styles, etc., all require some form of manipulation, whether on the low or high end of the spectrum. A lovely facet of Black hair is its ability to do so many things, which affords us a myriad of options for creativity and self-expression.

My issue wasn't with manipulation as a whole but how I thought it was always necessary. As I would use the towel to pat my hair dry and dab my face and ears to catch the water from the wash, my mom would say, "I would go out with it just like that," and it never failed to leave me confused as I was wholly unconvinced. She wasn't burdened by shame in the position of existing with my hair; I was still catching up to this level of freedom. The hair I was born with sometimes felt too overwhelming. Going outside with no product added, and no excessive styling felt nightmarish and forbidden. I would experience intense bouts of depression, plagued with low confidence in between styles, when I was left with myself after a takedown. The complexities of my thoughts were strange to me because while these feelings were commonplace, they no longer served me and never did. As I came to this conclusion, I understood that these beliefs were expected of me, too. Reluctance to truly love my hair was undoubtedly in the cards, a birthright even, in a country so fixated on vigorously tyrannizing me.

This overarching hatred has been sewn into my heart and in those who have come before me for centuries. It runs deeper than I'll ever fully comprehend. To combat these ways of thinking and reconstruct the harmful wiring of my brain to reach acceptance, I'd have to take action, and I didn't know what that looked like until it became so unbearable that I no longer had a choice to remain stagnant. I experienced lots of joy switching up my hair plenty, and alongside the fun of adopting a new look so frequently came the brooding over its costliness and enervating use as an escape. My dependability on hair manipulation firmly grasped my self-image, alienating me from the positive emotions I should be experiencing about myself. Little by little, my moments where I'd show mental progress in this fight would turn into days where I could practice exposure therapy in different settings, using lower manipulation styles for more extended periods, but the likelihood of my unhealthy cycles returning hung over my head.

The cold, hard truth was that I struggled to feel beautiful as only myself. Would the world end if I dropped that towel then and there after my mom made that comment and stepped out into the sunlight? Looking like my family, my people, merely myself, must be a source of ease, solace, and pride, and I want nothing more than to keep this a complete constant for as long as I live. I looked at the act of cutting my hair as a way to start from scratch. To roll out of bed and have a finished look, one that flaunts the tight formation of my curls and shows my entire face. It was an intimidating proposal, but increasingly coming to the surface was a part of me that knew how imperative it would be to my growth, and that part drove me to go through with the plan and put one foot in front of the other on the day of to reach my new beginning.

After my first big chop, profound emotional responses would occur daily, innately uplifting in great intensity. My head felt lighter, and yes, that has something to do with the mass of my hair no longer being there, but a lot of my former inner dialogue hushed and even dissipated. It was as if the removal of the emotional weight and traumas my hair carried put everything in perspective. I can overcome the brainwashing. I was always capable of doing this, just unready to unpack the realities of my perception of myself and the fallacies in my comfortability. The demand to implement change has garnered a strong force over time. While my exhaustion pushed me into action, it was the perfect time as I found myself equipped with all the tools needed to make it happen: knowledge of its origins, awareness of its vast instillation and normalization, and, at last, the love for myself to reset the part I play in this structure because, in this lifetime, I deserve to feel at home when I look at myself. I can overcome, and I am.

I'm now in a position where manipulation doesn't include an array of options, so letting myself be doesn't require much effort. I plan on maintaining my short cut for a while, and when I think about growing out my hair again in the future, I don't feel the anxieties tied to routinely concealing my natural hair because I no longer share the desire to do so. Sure, I sometimes miss the styles I would do and how I changed things up, but I'm becoming a big fan of the stability this hairstyle grants me and how good I feel in it. All while barely having to lift a finger! It's comforting to know that I'm gaining more and more security in myself so self-expression can continue to look like different things without a self-hating component.

Another concept I gave much thought to during my decision process before the haircut was how my femininity manifested in me and how that would change after cutting ties with a traditional symbol of what it looks like. I've used my hair as a way to establish hyper-femininity in my appearance in the past, among other attributes, and understanding my womanhood and how its external presence changes as I do physically induced an affirmatory metamorphosis. No outer-appearing element on my body connected me to my femininity more than being able to separate the association between the two. With how I appear now, my perspective on my femininity has changed in the sense that it no longer fits into the rigid patriarchal identity structures I succumbed to; it's fluid and more so aligns with my growing insight from experiences in my body and how they've etched all types of wisdom into my soul. The validity of my existence as a feminine being only has to make sense to me, and I can't explain how freeing that feels.

The advancements I've been making toward facing my identity struggles contain so much in what feels like so little time. It's astonishing, really, that a haircut could cause such a constructive shift, a reshaping that has left me bare and more grounded. I've never felt more like myself, and as many variations of me coexist and live, I feel like a walking amalgamation of them all in the best way. This version is sturdier, more open, and defiantly loving to me, against all odds. I was told by someone that I love ardently that my full face can be seen; in other words (well, mine), my essence from my core is now shining through at first glance. All I can do is smile and finally agree.