December 22, 2021

It’s rare that I find myself at a loss for words. Speechless? Quite often. But between my notes app, journal, and the little voice inside my head, I’m usually at a loss for where to put my words. So when my roommate handed me a mirror and I first became acquainted with my shaved head, there was nothing strange about the moment of silence I shared with my reflection.

What was unusual was that when I went to bed that night, I fell right asleep. Unlike normal, I had no particular feelings to journal about or intrusive thoughts keeping me up. For the first time in years, my journal took a one month hiatus. My notes app during this time only housed grocery lists and the names of a few songs I’d wanted to listen to. How I remember it, there was about as much going on in my head as there was on top of it. But I want to make one thing very clear: I hadn’t been hollowed out, I was the most fulfilled I’d ever been in my entire life.

Shaving my head was an event prompted by way of both impulsive and premeditated thoughts. The idea first crossed my mind in middle school, as my scalp became plagued with bald spots when I developed trichotillomania (a compulsive hair-pulling disorder). As I worked tirelessly to hide the apparent patches, I was desperate for a solution that would allow me to escape the hell I was living in. 

While a buzz cut would free me from the anxieties of getting my hair to lay just-so, I suppressed the idea. Shaving my head would bring me about as far from society’s female beauty standards as humanly possible. And with that being the reason I felt so much shame and disgust for my disorder, I figured it best not to. Besides, I’d already bullied myself into believing I’d never be able to “pull off” a buzzcut, whatever that means.

But almost a decade later, the crown of my head was as bare as it had ever been. Bobby pins and headbands were no longer adequate solutions. I could no longer rely on throwing my hair up into a ponytail, as even that would allow my bare scalp to peek through. And while the idea still lingered, my prevailing insecurities and societal pressures did, too. That was, until I briefly mentioned my idea to my roommates. 

Within a couple of hours, they had convinced me to do it, acquired a male friend’s electric face razor, and shaved my head. 

My friends were excited; my coworkers, shocked; and my family, supportive. I was quick to share my experience with trichotillomania and give thorough explanations to the many people who asked “Why did you do it?” But when my mother asked, “How did it feel?” I was once again silenced. I went on to describe how light my head felt and how cold I was not having hair in the winter. Which, granted, were all things I felt, but I still wasn’t answering how my shaved head made me feel.

To this day, I still can’t. It’s like I had been forced out of my head and into my heart. Having done what I wanted and quite frankly needed to, I freed myself from the shame that came with my disorder. My feelings of defeat were squandered, as I had chosen to surrender against trying to match the world's beauty standards. For the first time, I wasn’t consumed by a state of feeling, as I was simply being. Being bold, being confident, being exactly who I needed to be, for no one but myself.

Unfortunately the initial thrill of a buzzcut, much like any good buzz, doesn’t last forever. Hair grows back, people’s opinions start to matter, and before you know it, you’re all sobered up. That’s being a human. But now, I like to think that I carry with me, in every inch of my grown out hair, the being who I was that first month I rocked my shaved head; knowing that one day, I’ll find another way to catch that buzz again.