Choosing convenience over vanity

When I go to the salon, you can never really tell I’ve had my hair trimmed or styled. It looks the same, maybe a bit more accentuated on account of being blow-dried. Representation Pic/iStock

Anyone who knows me even remotely well would not be wrong in associating me with long hair. My locks generally traipse beyond my shoulders. I have preferred it that way because I can easily tie them up. I've also felt very convinced that my personality is simply not cool enough for anything funkier. When I go to the salon, you can never really tell I've had my hair trimmed or styled. It looks the same, maybe a bit more accentuated on account of being blow-dried. After I gave birth to our first child, I felt overwhelmed by the extent of postpartum hair fall. It is normal to shed volumes because of the switch in hormones between pregnancy and the postpartum period. But it still feels astonishing to keep encountering strands of hair on the ground, oftentimes alongside the milk that seems to spill, involuntarily, from one's breasts. I had my hair cut shorter then, but it was still just about shoulder length, and the stylist didn't even layer it. It was a very simple cut.

In the aftermath of my recent ear surgery, though, I began rethinking my hairstyle, not out of vanity but from a pragmatic, practical perspective. You see, the doctor who operated on me told me she had inserted a tube inside my ear to allow for air to go through. This was something they needed to do because of the extent of the bacterial meningitis. I would need to keep this inside my ear for at least a year (until November 2025) and this meant I had to be extremely vigilant about not allowing any water to enter my right ear. When I returned from hospital, I washed my hair in the sink. It was uncomfortable and I found myself washing it less and less until I was down to less than once a week. I also had vivid memories of the nurses struggling to comb my hair because of its volume. It had gotten dry and tangled. They had also shaved the region right next to my right ear and the hair around this patch began to sprout. I started to feel extremely unkempt. But the thought of bathing my hair filled me with deep anxiety. What if a drop of water accidentally got through? What if I woke up once again in hospital with zero memory of how I got there?

So, I made the decision to chop off most of my hair irrespective of whether I could pull it off or not. I settled on a layered pixie cut. I had to wait several weeks to make and get an appointment, because my schedule was inundated with doctors' appointments. On Tuesday, I finally went to the salon and explained to my hairdresser why I needed a shorter cut. She got the brief and suggested we keep the hair a bit longer in the front, so it framed my round face well, and shorter at the back. I didn't really feel convinced I could pull off this look, but the idea of being liberated from the anxiety of washing my hair impelled me to consent to it. Shorter hair meant less time spent shampooing and conditioning, and therefore, reduced chances of getting water into my ears.

I'm still getting used to seeing my new profile in the mirror, which has prevented me from sharing pictures of my new look on social media. I look different. I feel different, too. I flit between excitement over my new look and uncertainty about how it affects my personality. Maybe I am overthinking the relationship between hair and personality. But I will say that for the first time, perhaps because of the circumstances, I feel freed from the notion of external validation. I don't seek out compliments because I am clear the motivation behind this look was not external validation, rather something wholly practical. Since I've still at least eight weeks of pregnancy to get through, I am also aware the hair will grow out quickly. I wonder if, after November, I will continue to maintain this new look or if I will be keen to have it longer.

What's clear is that I still harbour an insecurity about being ‘uncool', a variation of an imposter syndrome wherein you feel queer, but not queer enough, radical in spirit but conservative in terms of dress, funky and out-there in terms of feminist ideology and belief but too femme-seeming. How I experience myself is still framed by how I am gazed at and by whom, even when I live far away in a town where no one ever really comments on physical aspects of my personhood. I am proud of myself, though, for choosing convenience over vanity. Last evening, it took me very little time to wash, shampoo and condition my hair, which felt like a small triumph.

Deliberating on the life and times of every woman, Rosalyn D'Mello is a reputable art critic and the author of A Handbook For My Lover. She tweets @RosaParx
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