I
Near the end of Fleabag’s second season, Claire, the titular character’s sister, gets a terrible haircut. Completely broken down, her ramblings to Fleabag created the iconic TikTok sound, “It’s French!” But it’s the scene that follows that has really stuck with me: Where Fleabag storms into the hairdresser’s to give him a piece of her mind, to which he snidely replies, “Hair isn’t everything.” Incensed, Fleabag shouts at him. “Hair is everything. We wish it wasn’t, so we should actually think about something else occasionally, but it is. It’s the difference between a good day and a bad day. We’re meant to think of it as a symbol of power; that it’s a symbol of fertility. Some people are exploited for it, and it pays your fucking bills! Hair is EVERYTHING, Anthony!”
Fleabag is right. Hair is everything, especially for me. Since I wrote Cranberry Milk 02 [link], I’ve been reflecting on the excessive value that I’ve placed on my appearance. I’ve grown a lot over the past few years, but my tangles with self-image have gone to some pretty dark places. During the pandemic, I would obsessively count calories to a point where it bordered on anorexia. I remember losing 10 pounds in a week. During my freshman year of college, there were days where if I felt ugly, I simply wouldn’t get out of bed. Where I would skip class because I didn’t feel pretty enough to be seen by the world.
I’d spend hours getting ready. Every morning when I woke up, I would do a half hour of yoga and a half hour of targeted lower belly fat burn before I even got in the shower. It was excessive, and unsustainable, and fed into the days that I crashed; but at the time, I thought it was more important to be pretty than happy. My insecurities made me hours late to plans with friends. They all thought I was just inconsiderate of others’ time, which I was. But there was no way to explain the severity of not feeling pretty enough without sounding completely deranged. Which, if you’ve met me, and know what I look like, is an odd fear. I’m kind of gorgeous.
And so I’d watch my grades drop and my friends slowly grow tired of me, and still I’d spend hours each morning making sure that my hair, face, and body looked right. I’d still hate myself when I ate and my stomach was no longer flat; and I’d want to die if I had a bad hair day. I’ve been better about this lately. I’ve been able to leave my house without makeup on when I’m running errands, and I no longer feel obligated to work out every single morning. I eat what I want, and don’t feel like I have to hide my body. I’ve tried not to base my self-worth entirely on my appearance. It’s been difficult, and I can’t say that I’m all the way there yet. But I’m getting there.
Anyways, I cut my hair.
I kind of love it.
II
Boyfriends
As longtime readers of Cranberry Milk (Cranberry Milkers? Too weird? Lmk what you think) will know, I just went through a breakup. Cranberry Milk is kind of just becoming a public diary, and I don’t hate it? So yeah, I dumped Adam, my boyfriend of over a year (not counting the two mini-breakups we had in between, which never lasted more than a few weeks.) This time I think it’ll stick… though I hate myself for hoping that it won’t.
In the past when we’ve broken up, it was always him leaving me. I’ve dated that man long enough to know he’s avoidant. That he’d run away as soon as things got hard. My anxious attachment made me hold on tighter. But this time, I decided to let go. I loved him. I still do. But after all we’ve been through, I have a lot of hurt from this relationship that I have to work through, and that’s not something that I can do while still being with him. So I ended things. At the time this is posted, we’ll have been broken up for almost three weeks. I think it’s been the start of a new era for me.
I’m not good at change. Or at least, I haven’t been. When people or things come into my life, I hold onto them, even when they’re bad for me. Even when they longer fit. I don’t think I’ve ever truly had a sense of security, so I scramble to hold onto the things that I can, living with the fear that at any moment, everything that in my life can be torn away from me. I don’t exactly have the healthiest coping skills.
It’s what I did with Adam; but since the breakup, I’ve realized I’ve done that with a lot of things. I worked as a bowling host for a couple of months, and I got used to the job, but it was taking a toll on me. I would’ve made more money as a waitress, and had more fun, but I was used to being a bowling host, and so I thought, “Why change it?” It took one of my coworkers yelling at me for me to speak up for myself and say that I needed a change.
Now, change is happening, and I’m really happy with it. I cut my hair. I’ve been writing a lot lately. I’ve hit a stride with these Cranberry Milk blogs. I just had my newest Ink Magazine article come out [link], and I’m working on the next one. I’ve been working on a short story about Adam and Eve. And thanks to one of my classes, I’ve even been getting back into art.
I’m not totally over Adam. I was with him for a year, and there’s not a day that goes by where I don’t think about him. I know it’s silly, but part of me still believes that he and I are gonna end up together. We’re broken up now, but what if in six months, or a year, or two years, we reconnect? What if by then he’s the person I need him to be: I’m more independent, he’s more caring, and things are right? The breakup is still fresh, and I’m not totally over him. But what if I never get over him? What if I’m not supposed to? But I can’t live my life waiting for him. I need to do my best to move on.
III
Short Hair, Don’t Care
I’m really happy with my haircut. I’d been wanting to cut it for a while, and right now I’m living my Lois Lane/Selina Kyle fantasy. I’ve cut it short before, the bob being my go-to haircut. I’ve done the bob three times at this point, and I really liked it. I kind of thought that it was the cut for me. I love the way it frames my face, and having shorter hair is so much more manageable. But my hair grows quick, and after a month the bob becomes too much for me.
^the bob in question
It feels weird to say, but getting this haircut was kind of a big step for me. Hair is hair. It grows back, and it’s easy to pretend that it’s not a big deal, and I don’t want to get all identity politics here, but my relationship with hair gets really complicated on account of my being a trans woman. Not trying to speak for anyone else here; but for me, I’ve had a long and complicated battle with my hair.
In a lot of ways, hair was my first foray into femininity. In eighth grade I started growing it out long. That Halloween I’d attempted a dye job, though in my youthful naivete I didn’t take into account how my dark hair would bleach, and the brassy orange post-bleach tones mixed with the blue dye to a seasick green. Honestly though, it was still kind of cute.
^ Naomi, grade 8
From there I grew my hair out, and it was a way for me to slowly embrace my femininity. As my hair grew, and more and more people saw me as a girl, I just kind of let it happen; passively playing into my femininity, and not understanding why I liked it so much. That play became more active with the induction of makeup and eventually, coming out, but my hair was a way for me to test the waters. When I received poor grades in school, my parents would threaten to cut off my hair, and we would yell and I would cry and at the end of it, I would keep my hair.
^ Naomi, grade 10
Getting this haircut was a leap of faith. My long hair had become a nuisance, but as excited as I was to get the big chop, it was also something that I had a lot of anxiety about. I’d worked so hard to hone my femininity. I’d had to fight for my womanhood: dealing with parents who didn’t want me to transition, the hurdles of America’s health care system, the anguish of the early months of coming out. Cutting my hair short (like actually short not kinda short), was scary.
I was scared that, with short hair, I’d look like a man. That my femininity was dependent on my hair reaching a certain length; and that if it didn’t, I’d become a boy again. I have a pretty slender figure; small breasts, humble silhouette. I’m hot, or at least that’s what everyone tells me, but I worried that without the obvious signifiers of femininity, people might no longer “get” that I was a girl. I told this to a friend soon after my haircut, and he laughed, telling me that I was the most feminine person he knew.
I think I’m only realizing now that this anxiety was hiding behind a lot of gender expression. I did certain things and wore certain things because, at my core, I do have a fear of being misgendered. Of being seen as a guy. It hasn’t happened for a couple years now, but it still sits with me. There are a lot of times where I think I’ve gotten over it. Where I’m finally at peace with my gender and beyond this shit, only to find later on, that I need to get over it again. So this time I don’t claim to be past it, just that I’m making progress. That I’m moving forward.
Being able to have short hair and still feel secure in my womanhood is incredibly empowering. I love the way that it frames my face. I feel more mature, more confident. It’s given me an ease with my gender that I haven’t really had before. The fact that I can have short hair and still feel beautiful fills me with so much joy. My femininity and my womanhood doesn’t come from my hair, or my clothes, or my makeup. It comes from me. Like Margot Robbie in “Barbie,” I’ve realized that no one needed to give me permission to be a woman. I just decided to be one, and no one has, is, or ever will possess the power to take that away from me. It’s all in me. This is genuinely the most beautiful and feminine I’ve felt in my entire life. I love it.