Psychology of a Haircut

By. Sarah Paoli

**please note this content may triggering to those who have experienced sexual violence and mental health struggles

At nine years old I was introduced my first week of American School: “This is Sarah. Sarah with an “H”. I became real and what I was, was not what I wanted to be. All I became was what was most distracting, most appealing, most alluring thing about me. Sarah with an “H” has long blonde hair. Sarah has long, long, really long blonde hair. Her hair is super long. I don’t remember what she said to me but her hair is yellow, it is super long, she has so much of it, she never cuts it, “IT’S DOWN TO HER BUTT!” and she lets other people touch it but they don’t look at her they just touch her hair and her mom washes it because it’s so much and it’s so heavy, she never wears it down. I want her hair but my mom says it’s dirty to not cut it. This is the girl with the long blonde hair. With my coke bottle glasses, buck teeth, and my three foot long hair, I was the chipped cup in a mother’s porcelain tea set.

My classmate’s fascination with my seemingly infinite locks did not abide. As I moved up in school, more questions were asked, though less invasively, and answered, in a more articulate manner. I despised my hair. It was all that made me interesting and I found it pathetic. My mother on the contrast, loved it. She spent hours a week washing, drying, combing, and arranging it into a neat braid, flowing down my back. Her own mother had always cut her hair into a blunt bob just above her shoulders. Her hair, dark, and wispy, had not had the luxury of growing to such lengths as her daughter’s pale and thick strands. She seemed to live vicariously through it. As I grew older and begged to have it cut, she was unrelenting, telling me to not be so concentrated on my looks and not ruin my hair by cutting it. This paradox of being told to not be “so vain” but also not cut my hair as to maintain its radiance and length was confusing and further fueled my annoyance for the heaviness hanging from my head. My flowy braid became a symbol of control. Being confined in my physical experimentations I began to control routine things in my schedule. Meals were the most extreme forms of manipulation.

Growing up there were clear signs of mental illness that were looked over and attributed to me being sensitive. Me telling my parents I wish I had been the one to die instead of the cat we had to euthanize was labeled as me having a ‘big heart’. My day-long silent spell after losing a board game was simply a cry for attention, and my extreme emotional disarray for seemingly no reason was connected to me being moody. My parents were sure that the tantrums prompted after a minor inconveniences were clearly just part of growing up. I was always the kid ostracized from the group, which I believed was in relation to my outward physical appearance and not the debilitation intrusive thoughts and social phobia.

In my teens my depressive episodes were all consuming, bringing me to a spiral of starvation and regurgitation. My body grew as pale and thin as the strands I was known for, though not many people seem to realize this correlation as I hid under loose clothing and spent most of my time alone. A lengthy hospitalization for medical and mental health reasons followed. Me and my braid were back at home after several months. I cut two feet of my hair a week after my arrival home. Even my mother agreed, this was a good choice, a fresh start. The power was in my hands. I was new. Sure, I had a name, but now I had met someone. My hair did not matter, it rarely crosses my mind.

I became a person, but molded myself based on who the boy that held my hand was. Taking more and more benzodiazepines as I was coerced into more and more contact. More kissing, touching. He loved me and the hair did not cross my mind. He said my name and it was his. If I was sad then the pills were in the microwave and they did not taste like anything. I did not touch my hair. Down they went. “I love you”. Take one. “Don’t be a bitch”, maybe three? “I’m going to kill myself if you don’t-” take nine. This benzo love story was cut short by my own hand after recognizing the abuse that fueled all of it. I was loved because I was warm, and when intoxicated enough, always ready. I cut all the strings, singed all the edges so there was no way of finding my way back. This was good. This was a true living.

My depression fueled an impulsive attempt on my life. After manipulating my way out of a psych ward, I bleached my hair on my parents’ dime. But the family consensus was that I looked good, I was healthy, this was a better, fresher start. I was unrecognizable. I kept on the weight prescribed and changed the way I dressed to match my hair. I began my first year of college and worked a part time job. My days began at 6 and ended at 11. Months passed and I renounced sleep all together. The hours and hair colours I gave myself merged together in an arrangement of blood and puke. The lack of sleep inebriating and the hunger nauseating. Even more blood, a bunch of more puke. I did not want a name. I did not want a body. I did not want a soul. I did not want hair. Any of it. None of it.

The crowd brushed my body. The body that is not mine. The body that was taken. The body I mutilated with my own hands. I want to be a boulder. Unwavering. Eroded by every touch. A natural disappearing act. Growing smaller and smaller. Learned helplessness is caused by a traumatic event or persistent failure to succeed. The rejection of softness, the failure to stop, the trauma of manipulation. The lack is the most satisfying thing. It is fantastic to lack because there is no expectation. The slate is wiped clean. The specimen is sterile. I am nearly half empty and no one wants to touch their lips to the rim. I don’t digest anything for as long as possible. Rest is not plausible and growing has ceased. I am letting myself disappear. I bleed. I puke. I piss. I scream. To empty myself. I cut my threads and fry them for thirty minutes every week to ensure that they are dead and gone. I will rinse and repeat until there is nothing left and even my whispers are unrecognizable. I convinced my father to shaved my head and my mother allowed it because I was finally confident enough to experiment with my identity.

I got my head shaved and I was no one. My name did not matter. I was a freak. I was a calcification of the unwanted. I cut and bleached all of my hair off. I was as sick as I looked. Women walked up and called me brave. Is it brave to die? If my parent’s car were to collide into a telephone pole, would my strength be nullified, because it was not an act of negation? Coincidental death is not courage. I wanted to diminish all together. This was not a threat. It was not a statement. It was a final performance. For everything I wrote to be included in my epitaph and every dress to be the chosen one. I pawned off conversations. Let my insides travel to see how far they could go on their own. The pills were never swallowed and the pillow was cold. Growth is a disease of capitalistic ideals. If I repeat this long enough it will be enough of a reason to become nothing.

I swear that once you shave your head you can actually feel your hair growing. I convinced my dad to shave my head every other week and he reluctantly obliged, while my mother turned a blind eye. The itch in my scalp was a sign that I was still functioning, despite the prolonged starvation of all necessities, I still existed and I then understood that this negation would not be an act of nature. I am inpatient. Relying on compulsions I compiled all means necessary. No warnings signs. No goodbyes. No notes. I swallowed everything I had not allowed myself for the last six months and went to sleep. And slept. And opened my eyes and bleed, and puked, and screamed again. I negated myself over and over. I am an artist. I am performer. The show is over. There is no encore. In Between screaming fits and projectile vomiting, I was force fed, and medicated. I continued my act.

After several attempts I got the institution's permission for a barber’s razor and kept on disappearing. My dad shaved my head at the lowest setting every Saturday during the allotted two hours visitation, after a 5 hour drive. My performance never wavering as I told stories of my rebirth, and new found love for life. I tried to sign myself out and was forced to remain in the institution. I was medically electrocuted and I still shaved all my hair off every week. I wanted wholehearted death. As much a I preached love and happiness the scabs on my scalp told quite a different monologue. I was not allowed to leave, and if I tried again, legal action would be required. I grew just enough to be deemed okay by my health insurance. Still cutting my hair down to the follicle as often as I could. Six months later I was discharged.

I am not allowed to die. I am not allowed to cut my hair. Not for vanity reasons. If I want control I must allow myself to achieve it in a socially appealing way. I have chosen creating. My hair is growing. So am I. My bile is in my stomach. The blood is in my veins. My voice is calm most of the time. When I scream. I scream because I am angry and someone screams back and then it’s over. But I am not allowed to die. I swallow what is prescribed and I wash myself to feel clean. Cleanliness is not morality. Self denial is not perfection. I have separated myself from my death wish, and have found that I can just barely recognize myself without it, but still, I can.

I have always played the dead girl, and played it well, but I chosen to discontinue the role for now. This is my first time allowing myself to existing without finding a way to leave. It is awful and embarrassing. I am learning to hurt like everybody else. I am growing. I have a body, a soul, and a name. I also have hair and I am allowing it to grow.

Sarah is a writer and musician studying at The New School, spending most of her time writing and performing in New York City and Brooklyn. In both her writing and music, she explore the concept of other selves and performative identity. You can find Sarah on Instagram @eldabutsarah.