I recently got a very short haircut. It’s shorter than it’s been since birth, probably. The only way it could be shorter is if I shaved my head. I have a tiny thatch of streaked hair on top of my head, and a sort of very short fuzz around the sides and back. I have a new haircutter, and this young woman has an instinct for cutting my hair which has blown my mind.
I’ve only had my hair cut by her twice, and both times the “do” has proven to be attractive to other people. I get nothing but compliments, though to me I look like a wrinkled little boy in the mirror. With my hair so short, there is nothing hidden. People tell me I am cute and I don’t get offended.
I personally love having short hair because there is no fuss. no muss, no hairspray, gel, combing or whatever. I am spared dealing with my very fine, limp, nearly translucent when clean, pale ash brown hair. I’m about to turn 60, and I seem to be going back in time to when I was a happy kid who didn’t have to worry about looking feminine. My mother didn’t think I looked feminine, and she used to tell me to unbutton my top button so “people won’t think you are a lesbian”.
I’ve never been a lesbian, but I have never liked all the over sexualized pressures that are put on women to dress and be obsessed with looks their entire lives. To me it is mostly bullshit, and I have been lucky to live in an age when there is less punishment for women who don’t conform to either the madona or vixen role costuming.
The ironic thing happening is that I feel as thought the clock is going backwards, that I’m growing younger, instead of older. And yet I am glad I am not young, because actually being younger is not a state I felt safe in. I certainly don’t feel all-wise or particularly safe now, but I’m wise enough and more able to accept the good and the bad of being alive.