Out of all the things to be self-conscious about, my hair wins the prize.
Genetically, my whole family got the short end of the stick. My mother's grandfather passed on his greasy, wispy hair (along with a slab of generational trauma) and even the youngest kids are stuck with it.
Growing up, this was a nightmare. Since toddlerhood I had to wear ponytails because wearing my hair open would "look bad". My wonky hairline and huge forehead made things worse for little-me, so I did as I was told and never let people see my hair open.
Until 7th grade. After years of being bullied, I had grown to resent people's opinions of me.
"Who are they to tell me what to do!? What do I care what they think about me!?"
So I went to school with my hair open aaand...
Got bullied for it.
Big surprise, right?
One girl in particular liked to chase me through the corridors and pull my hair, commenting how lackluster it is, how it lacks all volume, how I should cut it off.
In 10th grade, I did. I looked like a boy, further solidifying people's perception of me being "a butch lesbian". By this point, I had grown numb to what my peers said about me, so I ignored them as best as I could.
I had more important things to focus on. Goals. Plans. "Continue to get straight As and get into med school."
Luckily, life had other plans for me. But I carried this shame about my hair with me wherever I went.
As a woman, hair is incredibly important. Long luscious locks are sensuous and attractive to men. And girls learn that that’s the most important question in life:
"Do men find me attractive?"
The answer for me was ‘no’, so I stopped bothering.
I was supposed to be playful, giggly, laugh at a boy’s jokes when they weren’t funny, wear make-up, have perfect hair and skin, be less intense, be fun and flirty.
Honestly, part of me wished to be all those things and more. I wanted to be magnetizing. I wanted guys to line up for a chance to date me. I wanted the validation of not only being accepted, but desired, for no other reason than existing.
That part was my trauma.
I have tremendous compassion and respect for my teenage-self. She had to handle her already fragile nervous system in an environment where her peers actively made life a living hell for twelve years. Those formative years of brain development are gone forever.
But part of my healing journey was to come clear with my hair.
The first time I wore my hair open outside was no less humiliating. This time, my family criticized my choice, but I was beyond that.
I now found pleasure in disgust that:
My hair is stringy.
My hair is thin.
My hair is wispy.
My hair can hardly be felt, it’s that mushy.
My hairline is asymmetrical.
My hair can’t hold a curl.
My hair doesn’t cover my scalp fully.
My hair gets greasy right after washing it.
My hair can’t be styled because I don’t have enough hair to do anything with.
My hair is plastered to my skull.
And it makes me feel so alive.
Contrary to what we learn, disgust isn’t a “bad” emotion. You can feel so much erotic pleasure by opening into your disgust.
Life’s not about the pretty things.
The dainty things.
The things society teaches us are desirable.
Life is about everything.
About the people we face.
About the bubbling anger.
About sticking your tongue out when something stinks.
Everything can bring you toe-curling, mind-blowing pleasure.
If you let it.
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