In November 2024, I did something I never thought I would do: I cut my hair. At least 10 inches was removed from my head. The reasoning? I had a messed-up thumb in a cast and couldn’t maintain my hair without extreme difficulty, time, and pain. Not to mention that my hair was fried from two years of coloring it. I expected to cry dramatically in the mirror like the many protagonists in rom-coms and teen movies, but I did not. A single tear fell, then I smiled and moved on. Any other tears were wiped away at the idea of crying in the communal dorm bathroom mirror. I had reasoned that this haircut was the most reasonable next step, especially since I would be handicapped even more after a surgery later that month. Once I committed to my new look, I was scared to see other people’s reactions to me, especially since I had always been known as the girl with the large afro. My hair was what people saw first, for better or for worse.
Once I was finally able to wash and style my hair, I had no regrets. I looked like my mom, who is one of the prettiest people I know. I looked like my aunts on my dad’s side of the family, whom I had never met, but had familiar enough features that I knew I could pull this cut off. Still, I looked like me. I definitely had some reservations, especially when going to class for the first time. I wondered what my friends would say or if I would be treated differently by my classmates. That morning, I made sure to wear makeup, earrings, and a necklace to class. I had such a deep fear that I would look manly now that my hair was short, which is not a new feeling. I have grown up with this sinking feeling that I was not feminine enough as a tall, black girl. It did not help that I spent my entire childhood and adolescence with my brother in the grade below me, who haunted our shared halls and classroom walls as the boy version of me.
“Hair holds memories”
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I am not alone in this phenomenon. Many young black women share this fear after seeing our peers be hyper-masculinized. Think of five famous black women. At least one of them has had to deal with hyper-masculinization for no other reason than looking how they are. Michelle Obama, Angel Reese, Lauren Betts, Megan Thee Stallion, and Serena Williams are all examples of the masculinization of black women. Now, why is this the case? It all comes down to the ‘ strong black woman’ stereotype. We are expected to endure physically and emotionally, which is related to the traditional male role. This has been forced onto black women since slavery, where they bore children and sacrificed them to a life of pain and suffering, along with the trauma of being separated from their children.
Along with convenience, I was motivated by the saying “hair holds memories.” I can remember the color of my braids when I found out my childhood best friend passed away, freshly done before a summer vacation. I cut away so many memories along with my hair, ones of loss, of loneliness, and of fear. It is fitting that the horror show of my freshman year, where I spent every day trying to get used to being the only black girl in a room or a group, was tossed away with my hair, but I was still struggling with a different part of fitting in. Compound that with how femininity in the United States and on social media is defined mostly by Eurocentric standards of beauty, you have my little sister sneering in slight fear, “You cut your hair, you look like a boy!” I am confident in my appearance, just like I was with long hair. I will look rough some days, but I do not need to dress up every day to look feminine. I am woman enough just as myself.
