Living as free as my hair

When “Born This Way” came out and Lady Gaga sang about wanting to live as free as her hair, I, like many fans, had a mixed reaction to the song.  I wanted to love it, and I kind of did, but it felt perhaps too dramatic, too heavy-handed with metaphor, too earnest. Nonetheless, it still struck a chord in an offbeat way.

As vain or superficial as it may outwardly seem, a song dedicated to hair and self-expression spoke to me.

During my childhood, I almost always had short hair. Until I was five, I had an adorable and natural pixie because my hair wouldn’t really grow. When it did, I began this bizarre habit of chewing on the ends, so my parents cut it short and broke me of this unappealing tendency. I kept it short and rocked a geekier variation of the bowl cut (if you could imagine) until I was 13 and grew it out.

Then, as teenage angst set in along with a womanly body, I walked a line of wanting to express myself through my hair and being too attached to the compliments I got about how lovely, long, dark, and feminine it was. I wouldn’t dare cut it, but I would bleach and color pieces of it and dye it darker and darker. I dyed it a solid blue-black in my family’s laundry room sink. When my mother saw this, she flipped and took me to the hairdresser, who tried to bleach it out and reinstate my natural color – what a mess.

As my teen years and early 20s progressed and my self-esteem bottomed out, I became attached to what my long hair represented: attention from guys, attention from girls, attention from stylists who fawned over it during my four-year stint as a model, and, well, just attention that fed my insecurities.

When I cut it to a chin-length bob after a bad break-up, people freaked out. Basically, no one liked it, and I would wake up the middle of the night reaching for my long hair, shocked to remember that it was gone. Was I not “pretty” anymore? So, I grew it back.

What did the mess on top of my head represent? Why was it that I always wanted to try funky, daring things with it, but was somehow so dependent on not changing how attractive I appeared to my friends, my family, and strangers on the street? Why did wanting to be accepted by others trump my bold nature?

In retrospect, to put it simply, it was because I couldn’t be truly be satisfied with myself because I wasn’t honest with myself. I had to look externally for confidence, reassurance, and love, because inside, I was off-base. I didn’t know what I wanted or needed because it was easier to always focus on attempting to please others.

When I came out as gay, all of that changed. I dramatically became less reliant on others’ approval of how I looked, what I said, what I did.

What’s funny is that when I came out to them, several of my straight male friends alarmingly asked, “You’re not going to cut your hair, are you?”

Hmm, interesting question. I didn’t think at the time that I would, but as it turns out, I did want to, and I cut my hair short in one fell swoop a la Robyn in her “Cobrastyle” video. Amazing. While my family and some of my friends didn’t like it, I loved it. It was bad-ass. It was daring. It was bold. It was fun. It was me.

Did I do it to appear more gay to the general population? Sure. While some might not want to admit that, since it seemingly feeds the stereotype, I think it’s fine. Being a queer is queer, and expressing that in physical ways is fine and fun, and it helped me adjust to living as an openly gay girl.

Did I do it to read more gay to the LGBT population? Not as much – gay people usually have pretty killer gaydar, alternative-lifestyle haircut or not.

Did I do it to have a respite from being hit on by men? Totally. I realized pretty quickly that nothing is worse than going out with my girlfriend, holding hands, talking, and being interrupted by a guy trying to sling some game. As soon as I cut my hair, the number of men trying to hit on me dropped off, and I breathed a sigh of relief.

Mostly why I cut my hair, though, was because I wanted to. Because I thought it was awesome and because, for the first time since I was 10 years old, I didn’t care what anyone else thought. Trying to look “pretty” and “perfect” by society’s standards of beauty is no longer a priority. Instead, I allow myself to do what feels right inside, so I can look at myself in the mirror and say, “Hey, sexy.”