In the area where I live, hair salons were closed for the majority of the first two years of Covid. Although I don’t actually go to my hairdresser that often with my long, straight hair, two years has been a bit too long. So long that once I learned my hairdresser was reopening, I made the decision to chop off my waist-length hair altogether.
I went to the hair salon, and showed the hairdresser the Instagram picture of a short bob. My hairdresser responded: “Have you had short hair—I mean, this short— before?” I could hear the surprise in her voice. She’s been looking after my long hair for years, after all. Now she was trying to make sure I was not making an impulsive decision which might result in a dissatisfied customer and then one of those one-star Google reviews. I took off my mask, grinning, and replied, “Don’t worry, I won’t regret it. I’ve done this before.”
What she didn’t realize was that that experience dated back to my teenage days, some thirty years ago. I had short hair for three years in senior high school because it was a requirement. The school principal believed that having everyone wear the same uniform and hairstyle helped us to focus more on our studies. I was fine with the uniform, but the short hair requirement was a problem. This was because my mom didn’t want me to go to a hair salon to have my hair cut; instead, she insisted that she would cut it for me. She was not a hairdresser, by the way. My dad traveled quite often for work and my mom worked full time. As a result, spending time to make sure I looked pretty and stylish was never a priority, compared to making sure I did all of my homework, and that all of the household chores were done on time. Mom’s way of avoiding having to brush my hair and of stopping me from having ear infections in the summertime was to cut my hair short herself. She had done this ever since I was in kindergarten. As a result, I was never given major roles in school plays, because I always looked like a boy wearing a dress. Being a problem solver, from primary school onwards, I learned to do my own ponytail and all sorts of braids myself. Things were OK in the hair styling department up until this short hair requirement came into my life again in high school.
Initially, I was hoping that Mom would send me to the neighborhood hair salon so I could have my hair cut just like my classmates’ hair. I had never been to a hair salon before at that point, and I was really looking forward to the experience of finally being pampered by a professional, albeit just the aunty I would bump into from time to time in the local grocery store. To my disappointment, Mom dug out a pair of scissors and told me there was no need for high school girls to see a hairdresser. After all, she only went to one very occasionally herself, for a perm when it was time for a big family get-together or a social event for work. What I didn’t understand then was that, apart from being only an aesthetic add-on, the cost of me going for a haircut twelve times a year added up to a significant amount of money for our family. And Mom had not budgeted that in—and saw no benefit in adding it. At the time, what I could remember was the humiliation of going into the classroom the first time Mom cut my hair, and noticing that my haircut looked worse than the hairstyles of any of the boys in my class.
The battle for a “real” haircut began, and it got out of control in a month when the next haircut was due and I was also going to an award ceremony for a competition that I had won at the school. Mom was still adamant that I would be fine with the same funny cut that looked like someone had used a round bowl as a guide when they trimmed my hair. I, on the other hand, was absolutely determined that I didn’t want to stand out in the crowd because of my “unique” hairstyle anymore. Neither of us wanted to budge, so I went to the extreme. When I was alone at home, I tried to cut my own hair using the same technique I had used when I braided my long hair: two mirrors. Yes, I tried to achieve a short bob. It looked all right from the front, but I ended up with almost-bald patches at the back.
This story could have ended miserably, but it didn’t. My aunty came to stay with us for the weekend. She was Mom’s youngest sister, and I treated her more like an older sister than an aunty. At that time, she had just graduated from college. Aunty walked right into the fight I was having with Mom about my DIY cut. I was still teary when Mom went into the kitchen and refused to speak to me. She thought I was being unreasonable, while I considered that she was ultimately responsible for what I had had to do to my hair. Aunty stayed with me in the living room until I stopped crying. Then she said, “Let’s go to the hair salon now. I’ll pay for it.” And just like that, I went to the hairdresser for the first time in my life, with no reservation and a radicular cut. The lady there shampooed my hair on a reclining chair. It was a strange feeling to have my hair washed while I was lying back rather than bending forward. I sat on an adjustable chair that the lady could move up and down to the correct level before cutting my hair. She tried to make some compliment about the haircut that I had given myself. But my haircut was so terrible that we all ended up laughing at the weird shape of it. I left the hair salon with a smile. I knew, however, that this was not a full rescue. Mom would probably insist on cutting my hair the next time. It is always easier to write on a blank slate than to fix a bad first draft. Nevertheless, I got a real haircut. Mom didn’t say a word after I returned home. And seeing the result, she agreed to pay for me to go to a hairdresser from that day forward!
I still have the picture I took the next day at the award ceremony. I was smiling broadly, sitting in the first row with my stylish new short bob. The person standing behind me had this shocked expression on his face, most likely from seeing the bald patches on the back of my head and wondering what had happened.
I went to the hair salon, and showed the hairdresser the Instagram picture of a short bob. My hairdresser responded: “Have you had short hair—I mean, this short— before?” I could hear the surprise in her voice. She’s been looking after my long hair for years, after all. Now she was trying to make sure I was not making an impulsive decision which might result in a dissatisfied customer and then one of those one-star Google reviews. I took off my mask, grinning, and replied, “Don’t worry, I won’t regret it. I’ve done this before.”
What she didn’t realize was that that experience dated back to my teenage days, some thirty years ago. I had short hair for three years in senior high school because it was a requirement. The school principal believed that having everyone wear the same uniform and hairstyle helped us to focus more on our studies. I was fine with the uniform, but the short hair requirement was a problem. This was because my mom didn’t want me to go to a hair salon to have my hair cut; instead, she insisted that she would cut it for me. She was not a hairdresser, by the way. My dad traveled quite often for work and my mom worked full time. As a result, spending time to make sure I looked pretty and stylish was never a priority, compared to making sure I did all of my homework, and that all of the household chores were done on time. Mom’s way of avoiding having to brush my hair and of stopping me from having ear infections in the summertime was to cut my hair short herself. She had done this ever since I was in kindergarten. As a result, I was never given major roles in school plays, because I always looked like a boy wearing a dress. Being a problem solver, from primary school onwards, I learned to do my own ponytail and all sorts of braids myself. Things were OK in the hair styling department up until this short hair requirement came into my life again in high school.
Initially, I was hoping that Mom would send me to the neighborhood hair salon so I could have my hair cut just like my classmates’ hair. I had never been to a hair salon before at that point, and I was really looking forward to the experience of finally being pampered by a professional, albeit just the aunty I would bump into from time to time in the local grocery store. To my disappointment, Mom dug out a pair of scissors and told me there was no need for high school girls to see a hairdresser. After all, she only went to one very occasionally herself, for a perm when it was time for a big family get-together or a social event for work. What I didn’t understand then was that, apart from being only an aesthetic add-on, the cost of me going for a haircut twelve times a year added up to a significant amount of money for our family. And Mom had not budgeted that in—and saw no benefit in adding it. At the time, what I could remember was the humiliation of going into the classroom the first time Mom cut my hair, and noticing that my haircut looked worse than the hairstyles of any of the boys in my class.
The battle for a “real” haircut began, and it got out of control in a month when the next haircut was due and I was also going to an award ceremony for a competition that I had won at the school. Mom was still adamant that I would be fine with the same funny cut that looked like someone had used a round bowl as a guide when they trimmed my hair. I, on the other hand, was absolutely determined that I didn’t want to stand out in the crowd because of my “unique” hairstyle anymore. Neither of us wanted to budge, so I went to the extreme. When I was alone at home, I tried to cut my own hair using the same technique I had used when I braided my long hair: two mirrors. Yes, I tried to achieve a short bob. It looked all right from the front, but I ended up with almost-bald patches at the back.
This story could have ended miserably, but it didn’t. My aunty came to stay with us for the weekend. She was Mom’s youngest sister, and I treated her more like an older sister than an aunty. At that time, she had just graduated from college. Aunty walked right into the fight I was having with Mom about my DIY cut. I was still teary when Mom went into the kitchen and refused to speak to me. She thought I was being unreasonable, while I considered that she was ultimately responsible for what I had had to do to my hair. Aunty stayed with me in the living room until I stopped crying. Then she said, “Let’s go to the hair salon now. I’ll pay for it.” And just like that, I went to the hairdresser for the first time in my life, with no reservation and a radicular cut. The lady there shampooed my hair on a reclining chair. It was a strange feeling to have my hair washed while I was lying back rather than bending forward. I sat on an adjustable chair that the lady could move up and down to the correct level before cutting my hair. She tried to make some compliment about the haircut that I had given myself. But my haircut was so terrible that we all ended up laughing at the weird shape of it. I left the hair salon with a smile. I knew, however, that this was not a full rescue. Mom would probably insist on cutting my hair the next time. It is always easier to write on a blank slate than to fix a bad first draft. Nevertheless, I got a real haircut. Mom didn’t say a word after I returned home. And seeing the result, she agreed to pay for me to go to a hairdresser from that day forward!
I still have the picture I took the next day at the award ceremony. I was smiling broadly, sitting in the first row with my stylish new short bob. The person standing behind me had this shocked expression on his face, most likely from seeing the bald patches on the back of my head and wondering what had happened.
