The Secret Society of Short-haired Ladies

Photo by the second fiddle; https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/2.0/

The moment of truth was arriving. The moment of nervous twitches and mind spasms of indecision was beginning. The moment of slowly walking toward the chopping chair was approaching. The moment of my vulnerability was coming. My husband’s voice of assurance and encouragement and my wonderful friend who'd agreed to go with me was all that was sustaining me.

There was a mirror. And around my neck, a black cape choking me, holding my hair. I gasped, “Cut a little at a time.” SNIP! Her scissors severed nine inches. Snip. She continued, Snip. I felt sick. I witnessed again—snip—and again—snip—and again—snip—as gravity claimed my lacerated hair. Snip. Her scissors glinted. Their blades relished the execution. Snip. She freed me from the black cape. Or seemed like a straight jacket covered in the proof of its deed. The sound of metal-shearing-delicate-hair rang in my ears. On my way out, the stylist said, “Don’t forget to style it, or you’ll look like a boy or a lesbian.” How casually she spoke. How casually her broom swept away the evidence of my now-detached femininity.

“ . . .Oh gee . . . thanks.” I mumbled. "Well that was rude." My friend whispered under her breath. "To both you and lesbians. Don't pay her any attention, Natalie. You look awesome, Natalie. I'm even thinking of getting my hair pixie cut now you look so great. Don't listen to her." I staggered toward the door feeling shell-shocked.

The guillotine had fallen—sharp enough to split a hair. "A boy or a lesbian?" The words swirled in my mind. I had had no idea that my entire gender identity and sexual orientation was at stake. How could I have known that a pixie cut held such power? How could I have known? I couldn’t breath, my air was catching on my throat with offense, embarrassing, oppressive stereotypes; identity crises; everything I'd ever heard did about women with pixie cuts. My friend gave me a hug, told me something affirming (I don't remember what), and headed toward her place. I ran home.  

The bathroom, the bathroom, he can’t see me, the bathroom.

There I was in the mirror; I didn't recognize myself. I stared at my sharp features, my red hair—I was a prepubescent Peter Pan.

“I’ll never leave again,” I whispered: a pin dropping in silence.

So naturally the bathroom became my Lost Boy’s hideout.

“Natalie, Natalie, come out of there. You look beautiful. Come out,” my husband coaxed.

“You haven’t even seen me yet!” I sniffed.

Desperate to convince me of my now-sleek magnetism, he proclaimed, “You’re definitely still attractive. And I promise you . . . your hair isn’t what makes you a girl.”

Trying to coax my out of my bunker, he placed a hot plate of dinner on the floor, slid it toward the crack underneath the door, and began to fan the delicious smell toward me as best he could.

Defeated by hunger, I slowly crawled out and wailed, “It’s a travesty! It’s gone, gone, gone. ” I cried. “Besides, you love short hair, and worse, you love me so your opinion doesn’t count! You're biased.”

Everyone, but my husband it seemed, knew that femininity and beauty were daintily clothed in luscious locks. Then (the sick self-consciousness still shames me) the cordial compliments, those razored words meant to fill the awkward silence of judgment, swiftly came.

“Oh . . . how brave . . . I would never be able to do something like that! Do you like it?”

“Oh . . . I could never pull a pixie cut off, but . . . you have the, uhh, face shape and, uhh, the confidence for it.”

“Oh . . . you cut your hair! Are you planning on growing it out?”

My lost beauty burnt my cheeks to flush. My discovered shame froze my eyes to the floor. Even our male friends who, along with my husband, would say, “Oh my gosh! You look amazing!” or “Oh wow! Your hair is gone! It looks awesome!” could only give me a moments smile. They're sincerity just couldn't peel away my exposed self-consciousness; I was too busy lapping up a fallacious paradigm.

Four days later, towards the end of my suffering, I remembered a beautiful woman with a beautiful pixie cut who had smiled at me without saying anything as I had walked home from the fateful salon. I had looked at her knowing eyes and half smiled before returning to my panicked flight toward my bathroom. I hadn't given the encounter a second thought. But now, I wondered at her knowing eyes, her silent smile that had communicated so much. What did she know that I didn't know? I went straight to my Peter Pan lair. Looking in the mirror, I began examining myself feature by feature. My green eyes had a knowing depth, while my well-proportioned face was smooth. One eye crinkled more when I smiled and my neck was more slender than I had realized. I stared. And I stared. I was . . . lovely. I had never noticed it so distinctly; after all, I’d been shrouded by a veil of hair. I hadn't realized it in my panic, but I had been quietly initiated me into the secret society of short-haired ladies with one knowing look and one silent smile.

Snip! My self-consciousness was severed. Hair or no hair, I was lovely. In fact, without my hair I was stunning. No scissor snip or shaping gel could define me by arbitrary stereotypes. Secret society of short-haired ladies, I’m here.