It was September last year when I cut off all my hair. With hindsight, I think I was aware on several levels that we were in the last weeks of my Dad’s life, and I was readying myself for the nightmarish days on either side of the actual end. I went into Warrior Mode, stopping just short of smearing woad under each eye.
That’s one take.
Another is that I was abso-bloody-lutely desperate for my freedom. I just wanted something, anything, to show me a different version of my days and nights. As nothing else was going to change, I made a major adjustment to my appearance. I wanted some power, some say in what was happening.
That’s another take.
“A woman who cuts her hair is about to change her life.”
~ Coco Chanel
When we’re under long term stress, we tend to have too much cortisol in our system. Cortisol is the primary stress hormone, designed to make our bodies more efficient under short to mid-term stress but when it’s ramped up for too long you’re at risk from these bad boys:
Anxiety
Depression
Digestive problems
Headaches
Muscle tension and pain
Heart disease, heart attack, high blood pressure and stroke
Sleep problems
Weight gain
Memory and concentration impairment
Cortisol rises during menopause (of course it does. See also: inflation, global temperatures, unemployment levels, Michael McIntyre shows, crime…) and I know mine was already high because I can still tick seven off that list up there. Add in two years responsibility for a dying parent; two years watching said parent suffer; parental stuff, financial stuff, pandemic stuff, every-effing-thing stuff and yeah…I had a lot of it. I was cortisol-ed up to my eyeballs.
I discovered recently that one of the routes cortisol takes out of the body is into our hair. It can give our follicles a good kicking on the way past, which is why under stress we lose hair - in chunks or just slowly - or we go grey faster.
Hair is technically ‘dead’, like our fingernails, but it’s still a part of us. It’s still part of our energy field. So I wonder if when women cut off their hair - because maybe life has been super stressful, or perhaps it’s the classic, messy relationship end that’s dragged on for months - they’re doing so to get rid of all that horror. They want it gone. They probably still have a body full of the damn stuff and don’t want to be carrying around more in their ponytail. Cut. It. Loose.
By the time I cut mine, it was stringy and fine. When I put it into two plaits, there were about 25 hairs still left by the ends. I so wanted a long, grey mane à la Yasmina Rossi but in the end I got fluff like Catweazle.
My father at this point, barely remembered me unprompted. Sometimes he’d remember me and then forget halfway through a conversation, assuming I was just another woman who came to wherever it was he was living (his home of 30 years), to annoy him and make him get dressed. The day after I cut off my hair, I walked into his house and he stared at me. “Have you cut your hair, Jo?” Take that, dementia.
Cut so short, it felt a bit healthier. I felt healthier. “There I am,” I said to the mirror every morning, running a hand through what felt like proper hair. I loved the freedom. I loved the change. I loved the rebellion. I loved the bloody Denchness of it.
Until I didn’t.
I know. You’re surprised.
So begins The Great Grow-out of ‘23-’24. I can hardly stand it. Last time I did this, I couldn’t do the grow out and the grey, so I coloured it and then had to grow out the colour later, which took another two years. I am horribly tempted to colour it again. I mean, ffs, I’ve paid my grey dues. I’m not and never have been A Silva Sista, I just got tired of the chemicals and the fortnightly root touch-up and the fading colour after 48 hours and the way my dyed hair just looked plain wrong against my face. Which is why I’m not actually tempted; I’m just saying that for effect.
Hats and scarves, y’say? I have the biggest head this side of Charlie Brown. Nothing fits or stays on this head that isn’t tied on with string and only wearable outside on a very rainy day. Because I live in a draughty old cottage, my A/W look is the same each year. It’s a hoodie. In a range of colours, with the hood up after 6.30pm (I know, I’m a catch). Even I won’t wear that outdoors.
As of today, my hair is too long to lie flat to my head but too short to use clips. It has officially entered its Bea Arthur era. I know you’re all just dying for my Spring Selfie collection but it ain’t happening, sorry.
Looking for a suitable quote, I found this one. The perfect reminder of why I went wild with the clippers. Je ne regrette rien.
“I never realized how much bullshit is bound to the bottom of your hair. How it carries with it the years and experiences, all it has witnessed, has endured. The reason you can’t let go of your past is that it’s still attached. That weight on your shoulders, the strain on your back and neck. It’s your dead ends. Cut your hair! I’m going to scream it from the rooftops and while running down the street, all across America.”
~ Rachel Harrison, Cackle
Thank you! Your post touched me deeply. I am taking care of my husband, while he is shrinking away almost by the minute. Terminal cancer. The knowledge that he can cross over any minute, hour, day, week. Almost living in screensaver mode. I understand that you had the urge for freedom, for "normal", for being able to make plans for the rest of 2023. It is now 16 months since we were told that he could go "any day now" and I am exhausted, I feel guilty for wanting this to end, I dread what is still in front of me and I am just done. Your post gave me hope and the knowledge that my feelings are not unusual or selfish. I am human and imperfect and that is okay. Sending you lots of loving kindness.
Having just had my hair sheared off on Monday, after growing it out for nearly a year, I'm feeling this hard. As things go, I'll no doubt enter that grow-it-out phase again in the not-too-distant future. For right now, Rachel's quote meets me where I am.