How Cutting My Hair Short Brought Me Back to My Queer Identity

When I was thirteen, I cut off all my hair. The official inspiration to anyone that asked was the model Agyness Dean, but she was not the only source of fascination. I also had a private inspiration for the haircut: My friend had just made a similarly drastic maneuver and I was obsessed with her pixie cut. The blunt edges framed her soft face, making any glance at her a beautiful dance between the masculine and feminine.

At this young age, I wasn’t aware that my obsession could have been a crush. Like many young queers, I confused my desire for her for what we saw played out in high school dramas on films and TV. In movies like Mean Girls, the rivalry between girls was often explained away as a competition for male attention, rather than the romantic tension it might have been. So it never crossed my mind that I wanted to be with this friend; instead I thought I simply wanted to be her.

Turning up to school with a new haircut always felt like a moment from the movies. I fantasized that heads would turn as I walked down the corridor, a sea of bodies parting for the new and improved me. My dad had told me the new cut was chic, that I looked like Jean Seberg, so I was sure my peers would treat me with the reverence worthy of a Hollywood star. But the judgment of my peers would hold much greater value than the parental praise that had sent me forth that day. I wasn’t met with awe or praise but silence.

One girl reassuringly rubbed my shoulder and commended me for my bravery. I was confused; I didn’t think this would be considered a courageous act. Maybe I had selective amnesia about the reactions I got in elementary school when I’d had a similarly short hairdo. Parents and children alike would refer to me as a boy. Back then, short hair allowed people to presume my gender. This time, in high school, it allowed them to presume my sexuality.

I've spent 16 years hiding behind my long hair, safe (and bored) in the crutch of compulsory heterosexuality.

It wasn’t long before my teenage peers had issued me with a new nickname: Lezzley. For those readers who didn’t live through the aughts, this may not sound like an insult so much as a descriptor. But at a time when being called “gay” was a commonly used insult, having my sexuality decided for me and then used as my defining feature was an experience that defined my gender and sexual expression for a long time.

At the time, I was exploring my sexuality with everyone—kisses were shared with other girls at private sleepovers just as much as they were with boys at parties. But this new nickname, along with the underlying homophobia by fellow peers, made me cautious about my chosen expression. To detract from the butch vibe I was giving off with this shortcut, I devoutly applied make up every morning before school. It was as if to say, “Don’t worry, I’m still a girl. I still like girly things and, most importantly, I like boys.”

It was around this time that the school's sexual hierarchy really became apparent. Holding hands with a boy or a girl sparked whispers through the school, but the way same-sex romance was mocked undermined these relationships for years to come. The desire to fit in was subconsciously seeping into my sense of self. And it wasn’t just my pre-school routine that changed but my after-hours one. It was clear that having a boyfriend was paramount to one’s social standing, while having a girlfriend was not. Romance with the same sex was funny, or a spectacle reserved for the house party; it did not hold the reverence that a straight pairing did. And so my queer antics became private sleepover experiences that never got the public declarations my straight relationships did.

Since then I've spent 16 years hiding behind my long hair, safe (and bored) in the crutch of compulsory heterosexuality. In recent years, however, I have been trying to reunite with the teen girl who wasn't afraid to make bold aesthetic choices and kiss girls. I have opened up my dating app preferences, I’m heading to queer nights out with fellow bi friends, and I finally cut my hair off.

In losing more than six inches of hair, I’ve put myself right back in that vulnerable place. For the first week after the cut, I felt as if I’d left something of myself on the salon floor. As if the inches that had been swept up by the hairdresser had taken away my femininity and therefore my sense of value in heterosexual society. I realized I no longer had my hair to hide behind.

But I’m not the insecure teenage girl that needed that validation in order to survive high school, nor am I surrounded by people who decided my value, my gender, or my sexuality by my hair. In fact, I’ve noticed a significant uptick on double takes and flirtatious smiles from fellow queer people, and I’m relishing the way my hair now signals my sexuality. It’s no longer the cross I must bear, but the lightweight flick of my short hair that tells the community I’m one of you.

Getting bullied for my appearance may have forced me back into the closet, but today I’m embracing how I can signal my identity through my aesthetic choices. Returning to a shorter cut has made me realize that I don’t need to decide between presenting in a feminine or masculine way. Both can exist in harmony, giving my bisexual teen self the peace of my mind she deserves. Cutting my hair is bringing me back to a part of me that's been dormant for too long. And next time I go back to the hairdresser, I’m getting it cut even shorter.