Mane
Seven Yrs Later are stories on change, in dialogue with Seven Yrs Ago.
It’s always too much till there’s not enough of it. Depending on its mood and humidity, it can be frizzy, dry, poofy, scraggly, greasy, silky, or limp. Inches do matter, and every shop and salon should give routine ear and eye exams because we said here, not here. Hair is personal to the point that it’s used by evil scientists to clone us, so should weird science occur, beware the other Filipino cis-woman with a dark, thick, straight, long undercut. Hair is a privilege, but styling is a choice, and for my favs, I’ve played with gender and its control. Length and visibility has been my game, so I’ll pass Go to when my hair was just old enough to buzz half of it, looking like $200.
Like most of my aesthetic instincts, I wanted something I hadn’t seen, but the internet disproved me and gave me Alice Dellal. Burgundy Naomi understood and with a clip shy left of the meridian, years fell from the sheen of new fuzz. Mane swished, owning womanhood I long rejected, as bristles crunched, hinting that it didn’t mean I had to give a shit.
The original dynamic, the sexually dimorphic, human binary, was bestowed to us by ancient ones. While Roman women grew long hair, men who cared too much were “effeminate,” a historical insult from thought leaders who vomited between courses with gusto. Fellow Roman St. Paul espoused: “Doth not nature itself teach you that if a man have long hair it is a shame unto him? But if a woman have long hair, it is a glory to her.” Glory and shame braid into evolutionary psych and socioeconomics as long strands became a sign of good breeding. Healthy hair needs a healthy body and a wealthy body gets help, because an itty bitty -ity like conformity requires maintenance.
For young me, every recital demanded curls; any form of bangs coerced trims; each hour of bleach fried pitch brown to overripe orange. The trappings of womanhood hung askew over a zitty head that throbbed with worry, eyes chunked with dull pencil, a chest that didn’t inflate on impact. I played Kemps and pushed tomboys on swings at midnight till I moved to LA where ostensibly real girls prevailed. Liberated by rebranding, I applied lipstick and pierced the nose. In designer castoffs from Goodwill, I decided to go bigger because I was not going home.
Before Sinéad razed Hell, institutions shaved heads to enforce parity and disgrace. Prisons and boot camps sheared to regulate men and justice systems shore to denigrate women, from Joan of Arc who rescued France to les femmes tondues, scapegoats for vigilante savagery. Into the destabilization milieu of the ‘60s, black women plus skinheads (multiracial before Nazified) shaved to go against other subcultures like hippiedom and good hair. Grace Jones, hot bald or flat-topped, knows that feeling is worth more than presentation: “I am my own sugar daddy. I have a very strong male side, which I developed to protect my female side.” While the spectrum widens between the two sides, I want to pick at the primitive dichotomy. Shaving one’s head may not be common for women, but shaving one’s body is imperative routine.
The legs were the first to go as I snuck Gillettes from Dad’s Costco box and grazed desert-dry skin. Mom couldn’t help but notice, that skinny infield green, but I denied it and she exhaled, having regretted ever starting. Growing back thicker and faster is a prevalent myth, but even if the truth was more out, I’m not convinced it would set us free. Hair removal is as old as hair since cavepeople skimmed with seashells to prevent frostbite. Sugared and waxed Egyptians elevated hairlessness to cleanliness, and the Romans ran with that, but just for women, because vomit. Station demarcations flowed through Europe from high Elizabethan hairlines to merkins, sex worker wigs down there, but the 20th century heralded mass marketing and media. Bodies could be shamed universally.
When fellow ballerinas bemoaned their light blonde stems, I had to fix my black-prickled shanks before they noticed those too. I learned from peers, but the specter of shame loomed familiar with archival ads like “Let’s look at your legs—Everyone else does,” and “I had a difficult problem of ugly, superfluous hair on face and limbs. I was discouraged—unloved.” Early advertisers took advantage of crises such as WWII, when they urged resourceful Aunt Samanthas to smooth their legs and paint lines down the back to simulate rationed nylons. Entertainment crossed images as Raquel Welch in a fur bikini inspired depilatory sales while broadcasting psychedelic fests amplified free love and free bush. Half a century later, body shaving has not gone extinct though femme-led companies like Billie offer faded support for whenever and wherever you want to trim. While it’s suspicious that a razor company looks unbothered if you’re hairy, it’s a money move in a growing discourse on individual choice. Beauty need not be in the eye of another beholder; I smirk when I wear pants and see spines sticking out of my socks.
As emblematic as the half-shave was, I did cut it off. Not for grand reasons, but for depressive workaholism, which I had to level out. I became Filipina Maria von Trapp as ‘twas my thick-headed fate. What followed were asymmetrical ‘dos, auburn dyes, and a perm as change craved curls. I now humorously look like my college self, though the buzz rotated to the bottom, so I can throw the hair up and keep clean. It is a privilege to have enough hair to voluntarily sever it, but there’s pride in reclaiming preference and satisfaction that my biggest fight nowadays are flyaways. Sexism isn’t solved, but my hair isn’t going to crack it, so taking care of what it covers is a step towards absolution. I dream of going ice blonde, maybe cropped, someday, but today, I’ll take the tub, a trifold mirror, and hum.
For sources and additional reading, getchu some here.