Everyone Likes My Short Hair But Me
Cutting your hair is a bold move (Photo: Trunk Archive)
Of all the men I ever dated, flirted with, spoken with, or known, my husband is the only one who prefers short hair on women. My problem: I have worn and loved my dark, curly hair long for most of my 40-something years. (When my childhood hairdresser untangled my unruly mane by unceremoniously chopping it off, I think it scarred me for life.) I’ve tried layers, bangs, and even straight hair, but the length wasn’t up for debate.
To me, long hair represents youth. In our culture, it’s sex appeal: Movie stars and rock stars buttress their style with weaves. Historically, it was also freedom: Feminists, flower children, and hippies of the sixties and seventies let loose by not letting shears near their “Hair”—the name of the famed counter-culture musical.
I’ve always shuddered at the thought of short hair. From chin-length to pixie-cut, it screams responsible! Practical! “Mommy” hair! It’s as if you’re saying to your hair, “I don’t have time to take care of you anymore—I’ve moved on to more lofty ventures.” But I haven’t. I’m married but I still like to toss my head coquettishly at my husband Solomon, his friends, an admirer on the street. How else does one flirt without twirling a curl, or peeking out from behind a brown silky curtain?
“Short hair is sexy,” Solomon let slip shortly after we married. Was this difference in taste grounds for divorce? “It’s rebellious, it’s counter-culture,” he said, citing celeb examples like Michelle Williams, Carey Mulligan, and Emma Watson (post Hermione). Turns out that Solomon views long hair as staid. Demure. Suburban. The coiffure of a proper fancy-pants who gets her hair done weekly, who wears pearls, sips Chardonnay, who is part of the establishment. Not a woman who can get ready in a moment’s notice, fly to Brazil with only the jeans on her body, get lost on a winding road just to explore the views, or stay up all night just to catch the sunrise.
I am that woman! I wanted to shout at him. I am a spontaneous, independent-thinker who creates her own style. And I have long hair! Instead, as a surprise for him, I spontaneously decided to lop it off, like an O. Henry character in The Gift of the Magi.
“You sure you want to take off so much?” the stylist inquired, holding seven inches up to my ear. It wouldn’t be short-short like Solomon likes (I’m not that selfless), but it would be short-er. “Why not?” I told her. It was only hair, after all. How bad could it be?
Klein’s new hair (Photo: Michal Solomon)
“Wow,” Solomon said when I twirled it for him. He loved it! I smiled at him, but in the mirror over his shoulder I saw myself frown. I hated it. Over the next few weeks, it didn’t get better. Yes, my head felt lighter and the style was easier to straighten (no curls for the shorn), yet each time I looked in the mirror, I saw someone else: older, plainer, unspecial.
The worst was at my 25th-year high school reunion. Without my high ‘80s mass of curls, people didn’t recognize me. (Of course it wasn’t the weight gain). As I looked around the room, searching for familiar faces, I noticed something strange: My fairly conservative classmates all had sleek, long locks!
If we children of the ‘80s considered long hair a sign of youth, a symbol of sexiness, what happens now that we’re older? Our names—Amy, Michelle, Robin, Laura—were once young, but now names reserved for parents. Everything we considered young was now old. Including our long hair.
I thought of all the superstars of my youth: Julia Roberts, Sandra Bullock, Nicole Kidman: Long, long, long. But were we aging ourselves because the style had passed us by?
Sex and the City’s Carrie had long hair. Girls’ Lena Dunham has short. And now so do I. My friends call it trendy, my husband still insists it’s sexy. The only one who has to get used to it is me. I have time to decide, though. At my age, it probably won’t grow back for a long, long time.
Related:
The Real Story Behind Where Your Hair Extensions Come From
