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Sparkle (7)
As a child, I had long braids that I refused to cut, much to my mother's chagrin. I fancied myself Laura Ingalls Wilder. As a teenager in the eighties, I was a spiral-permed, ratted, claw-banged glory. In college, I shoved my ponytail through the hole in the back of my ever-present ball cap or let it pour out from under my do-rag. (I looked more Axl than gangsta.)
After college, I embarked on a fifteen-year fight with my hair. It's very fine -- so fine I can fit my entire ponytail into the smallest hair bauble or elastic band. My hair, when long and uncurled, resembles the head elf in the movie version of Lord of the Rings. The boy elf. The hot one. It looked good on him, not so much on me. So I resigned myself for many, many years to one of the best styles for fine hair: the chin-length bob. And during the entire reign of my chin-length bob, people I met always thought they already knew me, because I looked exactly like half of the upper Midwest.
Frustrated, I tried to grow it out again. I did The Rachel in the late '90s. It looked terrible on me. You could see through the layered parts if the sun was strong. Why did I do it? Boys. Men, I guess they were, but I still thought of them as boys. Boys liked long hair, and I wanted to be liked by boys.

But when I really thought about it, I wanted to be the girl with the short hair. I wanted to be Helen Slater in The Legend of Billie Jean. I wanted to be Winona Ryder in Reality Bites. I wanted to be Demi Moore in G.I.Jane.
I wanted to transcend my hair.

But I was scared. I associated a woman drastically cutting her hair with a big fuck-you to the world: That's what women did -- I thought -- after a break-up, after leaving home, after quitting a job. It wasn't something you did at four o'clock on a Thursday just to see what it would look like. Plus, OHMYGODMYHAIRWHATIFITLOOKSHORRIBLE?

When I met my husband, my hair was one of the asymmetrical late-nineties bobs that is shaved in back and long in the front. It was really short, but I didn't think of it that way because I could still tuck the sides behind my ears. I maintained that my hair was not really short until the day earlier this year when I gathered my courage and told my stylist to cut off what I'd started to think of as dog ears hanging down the sides of my head. After years and years of trying to get my hair to be bigger, pouffier, more flattering, more SOMETHING, I decided to take the leap. My hair wasn't making me look fatter or skinnier or complementing really anything about me -- it's never been my best feature, it is just my damn hair. I felt good about it, I reminded myself, as I crumpled my picture of Michelle Williams in my sweating fists.
My stylist paused as she was about to cut it off and asked me again, "Are you sure?"
"Yes, cut it." I was annoyed with her for asking again, for making this such a big deal. But it is in American culture apparently a huge deal for a woman to cut her hair as short as a man's.
Suzanne Reisman wrote here on BlogHer a few years ago about her own short hair:
When I cut my hair short almost three years ago, I didn't mean to send any messages; I just wanted to look nice. Since then, however, I seem to be radiating some signal that I am a lesbian. If I am confusing people, I do not mean to, so apologies for any mix ups. However, I certainly hope that I am projecting that I am a dried up prune. An anonymous letter writer posed the following question to therapist Pamela Stephenson Connolly in The Guardian: Is it true that a woman with a short hairstyle is subconsciously indicating that she does not want sex?
You should really read the whole post. I wasn't completely surprised to learn how many people think a woman with














