Blank State
How living in the "no-rules rules" era means cutting your hair off isn’t a death sentence anymore
Feeling stuck, sad or that you’ve lost control and you need a fresh start? Cut your hair!
Hear me out on this. It’s cliche, yes. You think it’s bad advice, and I understand why. Fashion magazines and 90s/2000s culture warned us about this type of behavior. The #1 Commandment of Hair is “thou shall not cut one’s hair!” It’s historically been a loaded gun of an act and the telltale sign of a psychotic breakdown. So goes the age-old adage: do not cut your hair. Doesn’t matter if you’re sad or stuck or bored. Do not cut bangs. Do not go bleach blonde. Do not pass go.
Here’s the thing: that rule doesn’t hold water anymore. Things have changed, society has moved forward (in some ways). It’s the 2020s, for God’s sake. That commandment was born in a time where a White Anglo-Saxon Protestant (or WASP) standard of beauty was the standard. You weren’t truly living if you didn’t have a perky ponytail to swing around. And shame on your family because without a silky straight, shiny, long mane, you weren’t going to be attractive to men, either.
If you feel the urge, I say go for it. It’s safe to say we now live in the “no-rules rules” era. Screw it: cut your hair. Get liberated. Put yourself back in the driver’s seat of your life.
Nowadays, women give far fewer F’s. We spit in the face of old definitions of femininity and prehistoric beauty standards. We are body positive and size inclusive. We wear any and all hairstyles we want, and rock bright neon colors. We grow underarm and leg hair unabashedly. Hell, we’re even allowing ourselves to have breakdowns out loud and asking for help. Thanks to the pandemic, having a psychotic breakdown is cool, OK? So is watching 20 hours of TV under a weighted blanket. Everyone’s doing it all, it’s fine.
So if you feel the urge, I say go for it. It’s safe to say we now live in the “no-rules rules” era. Screw it: cut your hair. Get liberated. Put yourself back in the driver’s seat of your life.
I should know because not to brag but I’m the preeminent authority on cutting one’s hair. If you ask anyone I know, they’ll tell you that I’ve always been “scissor-happy.” I got my first big haircut at 16, a very slick and chic bob. I remember looking in the mirror at myself, at this new me. I felt like I could conquer the world. That I was starting a new chapter in life. That I was in control. And in that moment, a monster was created.
“Oh my god, you cut your hair AGAIN?!” This is the standard response. Most of the women in my life, whether friends or family, would see me and initially gasp in horror. I had cut off my HAIR, what was meant to be my proudest possession! The nerve, the gall, the gumption! You could almost see the wheels turning in their heads, fearing the worst: Would people think I was a lesbian? Would men not want to marry me? Would I die alone?? Oh GOD, somebody get this girl a wig ASAP! The worst was when I got a Halle Berry-in-the-90s-esque pixie cut for the first time, and my mother said, and I quote, “You look like a Japanese anime character.” But, like, not in a nice or fun way.
“It’s fine, hair grows. It’ll grow back!” I’d say every time. And grow back it always did. In my late twenties, I started having to convince myself to grow my hair out. To slap my own hand lest I book an appointment at the hair salon for a wash, cut and style. I finally found true, pure liberation in my mid-thirties when I cut off all my naturally curly and no longer chemically straightened hair. Ahead of my 36th birthday trip to South Africa, I took a pair of clippers and ritualistically hacked off my tresses, giving myself a buzz cut. Then came the bleach, also self-administered. By the time I boarded the plane the next day, I was practically hairless and a bottle blonde. It was glorious.
Even now, after my 100th time cutting my hair, the rush of freedom still hits. And thankfully the women in my life now don’t default to the, “Oh my god…” of yore. Instead, they ask me, “Was this a haircut you got because you wanted a haircut? Or because you needed to feel in control? Or both?” I’m happy to answer honestly, and often say both.
My advice to you? Just cut it. Then grow it back and cut it again. How many ever times you want. Why? Because cutting one’s hair is freedom. The closest to liberation as one can get. The ultimate do-over. A metaphorical shedding of skin. By the time you’re done, you emerge fresh and new. Anything is possible. You’re (back) in control. (Side note: I have control issues, I know. It’s a process.)
Jennifer Anniston didn’t keep “The Rachel” forever. Kerri Russell shocked and angered the world when she chopped off all Felicity’s long, curly hair. And you know what? The world kept turning.
Also because, let’s face it: life is a cycle. It’s a perpetual ebb and flow. Seasons change. Flowers don’t bloom year-round. You don’t have to be married to one hairstyle. Sure, Dolly Parton’s been wearing that same wig since before you were born. And Tina Turner (God rest her) had also been wearing the same Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome wig since the 80s. But Jennifer Anniston didn’t keep “The Rachel” forever. Kerri Russell shocked and angered the world when she chopped off all Felicity’s long, curly hair. And you know what? The world kept turning. Life’s about embracing change, whatever the reason it’s needed. So go get liberated.
x, Jocelyn J