what I learned by cutting my hair

“How do you feel about your haircut?” my good friend asked me.  This post is about what I learned by cutting my hair.

“I feel like my head belongs to me for the first time in my life,” I replied.

Wow, I had no idea what that long hair was doing to me.  I thought I had to keep it.  I’d cut myself off from how I really felt.

dissociated

The number one realization of what I learned by cutting my hair is that for most of my life, I was dissociated from my own head.  I know that must sound weird.  But I didn’t feel how my head actually feels.  My head was a place my hair lives, and my hair was not for me.

I was in the shower washing my hair right after cutting it, and my head felt new.  Finally I could pay attention to it.  My hands felt alive, and my head felt alive.  It was me.

legitimacy

Before, I thought I had to have longish hair for legitimacy.  I’d been told my hair, smile, and breasts were the only likable parts of my body.  So I thought I needed my hair long in order to be an ok person.

I didn’t explicitly articulate that, but the idea was inside of me.  Being raised as a girl was huge, and something about Christianity.  Gender was harmful in my family of origin.  No one said to me, “You must never cut your hair off.”  But there was a feeling or assumption.

Ming adored my hair long– we are hippies, after all.  So I left it long so he would keep liking me.  That lasted many years.  But then when we were about to remarry, it felt like high time.  My hair felt so dead; it was time to choose life with intention.

Ming and I talked about it carefully, and he supported me.  I felt safe that he would still love me with short hair; I can’t stay stuck in fear.  So we shaved my head together, trying for a centimeter for most of it and more like an inch long on top.

I don’t give a fuck what white men think of me

How freeing it was, to cut my hair.  Like my snake tattoo, it’s a symbol.  As I continue to grow up, I realize there’s so much I need to let go of.  I let go of more and more, until at death I hope it’s just my naked body and my soul within, slipping out.

I don’t need to be pretty in any way in order to appeal to people more powerful than me, in order to be safe.  I’m an adult now, sort of competent, and many decent people love me.  I don’t need to cower or fawn–I’m free.

I’m feeling out if people are treating me differently.  Friends say they like it!  I don’t notice white men being colder or warmer.  But for sure I am the changed one.

health

I intuited that it wasn’t good for my health to go around with a dirty head.  Washing my hair was such an ordeal and sensory torture that I would only wash my hair about once a week.  Often it got a bit grimy, which was a source of shame and only made me feel worse about my hair and less inclined to lovingly care for it.

We think of it as washing our hair– I was more concerned about washing my head, or my scalp.  My whole body needs a good scrub once a day, so it felt weird that the skin on my head was neglected.

I theorized that if I cut my hair short, I could easily wash my hair / head every day, with no sensory hell.  Yes, that is the case.  And maybe that will be good for me overall.  In a month or so I should know.

Sensory trouble with hair washing is very common.  The sensation of long dripping hair is Terrible.  So I should have given myself an autistic break a long time ago.  No one should have to carry around hair that’s not for them, but especially autistic kids like me.

the sun

“When you look in the mirror, do you look more like yourself?” my friend asked.

She’s trans and extremely bright; was the question about dysphoria?  I thought for a minute, imagining looking into a mirror.

“No, I don’t think so,” I said.

Those long waves were sort of me, as short hair is also sort of me.  Really I don’t feel human at all.  Probably you’ve heard me mention I feel like light inside, or water in the form of a river.  Maybe a rock–quite possibly a cloud.  I’m certainly not a dude inside, or a lady.

Today I was talking about it with Ming.

“Oh, of course–inside, I’m the sun,” I said.  “It it possible for there to be two suns?  One in the sky, and one that’s me inside?”

“Totally possible,” Ming said.

Then we talked about whether he’s the god of trilobites, and if so what form the god of trilobites would take.

gender

“Do I look dykier now?” I asked Ming.

“You look beautiful,” he said.

We were on a street corner, and he looked at me in the misty rain.  It’s been 13 years that Ming and I have been friends, 12 years partnered, 10 years married.  He is so kind to me and loyal.  When he looks at me, what does he even see anymore?  I hope he sees home.

As for gender performance, I have this mustache too.  The haircut and mustache go together nicely.  I’ve no desire to be a man, and mostly no desire to be a woman.

Lately I got a new sexual orientation besides queer: ABCD.  It stands for Anything But Cis Dudes.  I haven’t heard anyone else use the spiffy acronym, but we need an easy way to say that!

Will lesbians be nicer to me?  I haven’t noticed yet.  What about age– do I look older now?  This could be interpreted as a crone haircut, but I’ve been thinking about it since I was quite a maid.  It’s definitely not a mom haircut, but how about crazy artist haircut?

My friend said I look taller, like that’s a good thing.  I’m ok whatever height I am or appear to be.

bun sculpture

The last many years, I wore my long hair in a bun on my head.  When I cut my hair off, I realized the bun had been a form of sculpture.  Not a very interesting or creative sculpture– a sculpture of convenience.

My hair had been useful for stimming–to take my hair down and re-wrap it up in the bun was sort of like cracking my knuckles or some other reset-type stim.

I can’t stim with my hair in the same ways, but I can run my fingers through it.  Short, it feels more vivid and has less ghosts in it. 

healthcare and disability

I went in for a mammogram a few days post haircut, and Ming came in with me.  The tech was cranky.

“Do you need to be in here?” the tech asked Ming.  She peered at us as if from a very far distance, trying to ascertain our deal.  “Because there’s radiation–you’ll need to leave for the actual procedure.”

“I prefer he’s here,” I said.

“Ok, you’ll just have to step outside…” the tech said to Ming.

I realized she was trying to gauge my level of disability.   Ming wasn’t there to help me get my shirt off and on, or help me with instructions–he joins me because I’m autistic and crazy, and I’ve been known to get over-overwhelmed in medical appointments.  He comes to keep me calm and intercede if needed.

She might have been wondering if I was developmentally delayed.  I might look more disabled now.  Yes, she would not be the first person to think I’m “retarded.”  This haircut is low maintenance, easier for caretakers.  I realized the the two people I’ve known with Down’s syndrome had hair a lot like mine.

hair ties

Suddenly I have a bunch of hair ties I don’t need anymore.   Ming prefers simple black hair ties.  So what will I do with these colorful ones?

“Keep them for when your hair grows back,” my homegirl said.

“Uh, not sure it gets to grow back,” I said.

“Oh, you’re going to keep it short!” she said.

Who knows what the future will bring.

what I saw on the floor

When Ming and I cut my hair, I was shocked by how much hair was falling on the bathroom floor.  I’d believed my hair was a light brown wisp of barely anything.  I thought it was extremely thin and not very pretty.

So what was all this dark mass of gorgeous curls, almost black, luxurious, and wild?  I had the feeling, “I wish someone had told me I had pretty hair.”

Of course people had admired my hair over the years, but the comments didn’t enter me.  I think it had to do with the dissociation.  Maybe it was dysphoria or dysmorphic.  I couldn’t see my own hair–like it was blurred or existing in another dimension.

Weird how we don’t know what we got till it’s gone.  True the underside is darker.  I wish I had known it was pretty, but if I had known, that wouldn’t have changed anything.

regret

The only flicker of haircut-regret I’ve felt was while I was having intense painful emotions in public.  My haircut makes me feel a little more exposed.  I lean agoraphobic; the desire to hide comes up so easily when I’m upset.

The best way I could describe the regret was a self-harm impulse.  When I’m seriously hurting, I can feel eating disordered too: a strong desire to stop eating.  Self-harm impulses are knee-jerk urges to hurt myself in order to distract from emotions so painful that I can’t handle them.

So my conclusion is that cutting my hair off was an incredibly powerful way to care for my mental health.  I can tell because it’s self-harm to wish I hadn’t.

what I learned by cutting my hair

Probably this list of what I learned by cutting my hair is incomplete.  But I’m going to say this is enough for today.

Thank you to everyone who supported me.  And thank you to everyone who’s said, “Nice haircut!’ or who told me how good it looks.  You make me smile.

Maybe some people don’t know what to say because they’re afraid to say the wrong thing about gender.  My heart goes out to you.  Thank you for considering my feelings and hesitating to comment on my share.

Especially I’m grateful to Ming for long term supporting my choices and helping me use the clippers.  I love you, sweetheart.  Thank you for helping me do what I need to do.