August
I grew up with one very simple rule instilled in me – short hair is essential for life.
My mum never has never had her hair longer than a pixie and by the time I arrived my dad was naturally bald. He often jokes that it was the stress of raising my two older brothers that made his hair fall out but in actual fact it was due to male pattern baldness inherited from his dad that caused him to start losing his hair in his early twenties. I’ve seen photos of his and mum’s younger days. In them my dad had his hair buzzed almost to his scalp to hide the hair loss.
Those years of dating has resulted in a happy and loving marriage between two people who believe short hair is a practical solution to many of lives problems. Mainly because, by removing the decisions and difficulties surrounding the endless choices and styling decisions surrounding long hair, that person has one less thing to worry about in life. That and short, practical hairstyles also mean it takes less time to get ready and you save a fortune in hair products.
So from a very young age my two brothers were subjected to weekly crew cuts and buzz cuts during term time from dad with only a yearly head shave to look forward to at the start of each summer holiday.
When I was born (the only daughter) apparently my parents had a serious debate about whether I should receive the same shaved styles as my brothers. Instead it was decided that my mum should take on the role of my hairdresser.
Much to my grandparents dismay their little princess had her fast growing baby hairs quickly snipped off into a rough pixie cut by my mum. I’ve seen those baby photos. Let’s just say mum wasn’t a natural hairdresser but mercifully she soon got better with practice.
When I was five mum decided to give my first fringe. I was fascinated by this section of hair that covered my forehead. It was so much longer than any other part of my hair. I believe this look is what inspired my mum to snip my hair into its first bowl cut once the previous cut had grown out a bit. Evidently, after only one attempt, my mum decided that this was look for me. Thankfully little kids tend to look cute in a bowl cut.
For the next five years a routine was established. Every Saturday morning, once dad had finished buzzing my brothers’ hair it was my turn to have the back and sides of my head shaved to the skin. On the first Saturday of every month my mum would decide if my bowl cut would just need a trim or an inch or so of hair chopped off.
The neighbours were fascinated when we had an extension added to the side of the house. They kept telling my parents how exciting it would be for us to have all that extra room. I think some of them were angling for a snoop around our house when it was finished. Little did our neighbours know that this extension was quickly transformed into a miniature barbershop complete with an old fashioned barber’s chair and black and white vinyl flooring. Family and close friends were the only ones ever allowed to visit and sit in that chair.
Now, from my point of view, getting your hair regularly cut and shaved by your parents was a normal part of life. When I asked my mum why none of the girls in my class had short hair she told me that people go through a moment in life when they realise how unnecessary and impractical long hair is and that their lives are better off without it. Mum would point out that nearly all of the old ladies was saw on the bus or out shopping had short hair. Most women have this realisation when they’re older, mum explained, but I was lucky because she and dad had taught me the benefits when I was still young. I didn’t have years of stress and wasted time ahead of me.
My mum has her aunt to thank for her short hair epiphany moment. My great aunt Joan persuaded my grandmother to let her treat my mum to a ‘grown-up’ hair cut when she turned eighteen. I’ve been told that my grandmother had a minor heart attack when my mum returned home minus her wavy tresses that previously reached her mid back. Instead she wore a very short bubble perm that exposed her ears. While the perm didn’t stay, my mum vowed to never have long hair ever again.
Of course after hearing this story for the first time I too was desperate to have a bubble perm (even though I had no idea what one was). While my shaved nape and sides prevented this, when I was eight I was finally allow to have my bowl cut permed over the summer holidays. I spent the majority of those six weeks with a cloud of dark curls on top of my head.
Now being the younger sister to two older brothers I naturally had a phase when I wanted to be more like my big brothers and do the things they did; like going skateboarding in the park, and coming home after 10pm, and having all my hair shaved off over the summer holidays. I don’t think there are many girls who cry when they’re told they can’t have their head shaved.
This finally changed when I finished primary school. The first day of the summer holidays my brothers lined up for their annual head shaves. When they were finished my dad told me to hop up onto the chair. I was moving up to secondary school next term. At eleven years old I was considered responsible enough to make this choice. A head shave would signal moving into a new phase of my life. “Was I absolutely sure?” my mum asked – warning me that my hair would not grow into a bowl cut length in just six weeks. “I’m absolutely sure,” I said as my dad pushed the clippers into my hair, carving a path through my fringe and leaving a pale stripe across my crown.
My mum cried when my short locks tumbled down the cape and onto the black and white checked floor. She said she was crying because I was so grown up and she was happy that I was embracing the short hair lifestyle so completely. At the time I didn’t fully understand everything she meant but then I was too excited at feeling the vibrating clippers run over the top of my head for the first time. Seeing her three children with their shiny bald heads inspired my mum to sit in the chair after me. “I’ll have the same please,” she said smiling sweetie up at dad. It certainly caused a few raised eyebrows amongst the neighbour when they next saw all five us together.
Following my brothers’ examples I let my hair grow over the summer until a soft cap of dark brown hair covered my head. The day before the new school year started we all filed back into the home barbershop. “Right Millie,” said my dad seriously, “tomorrow’s your first day at a new school. How about I give you a nice smart cut like your brothers? Help you to make a good impression at school.” I nodded enthusiastically knowing what was coming, remembering the many ‘back to school’ haircuts my brothers had had. Starting at my nape, then moving onto the sides, my pelt was effortless shorn from my head and transformed into a bald fade. For the top of my head, dad used scissors and a comb to reduce the length to about a third of an inch. My first crew cut. I loved how those soft bristles felt under my fingers.
Then I started secondary school and that’s when I had my first wobble. At primary school a class of thirty students meant everyone in your year group. Sure my hair was the shortest of all the girls but everyone was used to me and my family and our shorn heads. At secondary school there were about 200 students per year group – nearly 200 new opinions of the strange girl with the ultra short hair. And teenagers are not as forgiving as children.
Why did I have short hair? Why did I look like a boy? Omg you let your mummy and daddy cut your hair? I’d rather die than let my parents cut my hair. Can’t you afford to go to salon? Do you even know what a salon is? Have you ever been to a salon? It’s where normal people go to get their hair cut by a stylist. Do you know what a stylist is? Why don’t you wear a wig for school?
During the first couple of weeks even some of the teachers didn’t believe I was a girl. Yes my name really is Millie. No I’m not Mark or Christopher playing a joke and trying to look cool by disrespecting the teacher in front of my new friends.
Why was having short hair such a big deal now I was at secondary school? When I was younger nobody cared. In the end my dad stepped in and made a complaint to the school about the endless comments I was receiving. If I loved having short hair then that’s all that mattered, my mum assured me. She also reminded me that at some point in their life all the self-obsessed overly fake-tanned girls who I had the misfortune to go to school with would one day reach a point where they had all their hair cut away. Mum told me to imagine these girls as old women getting their white and grey hair cut to a fluffy pixie cut. Or to imagine that at eighteen these girls, like she had been, would be taken for a major makeover by a kindly relative – only they’d be bawling their eyes out when it happened.
This advice definitely helped and I spent many a classroom daydream picturing certain classmates having their heads shaves. The daydreams often focused on a fictional old fashioned barbershop on the high street with nice big windows at the front to allow everyone to see in and watch the show. And when a hysterical Olivia Smith had to have her hair cut to a chin length bob because someone cut an 18 inch chunk out of her ponytail in art class…well I wouldn’t know anything about that.
Nevertheless my confidence had been rattled so for that first year I grew my crew cut out into a long pixie cut. This eventually morphed into an ear length bob (the longest bob my mum would allow). By this point all the hair related drama had long since calmed down and no one found my new bob remotely strange or worth commenting on.
Next came the classic teenage discovery of hair dye and my mid-teens saw at lot of people at school experiment with colour. I was no different. Being a naturally dark brunette I first wanted to try being blonde. So I bleached my hair at a friend’s sleepover and unintentionally turned it yellow rather than the white blonde I’d been aiming for with patches of copper and bright orange. My parents were not impressed when I came home and I only avoided another head shave by my truthful assurance that I had no intention of ever bleaching my hair into this dry yellowy-orange mess ever again.
To cover up this experiment I dyed my hair a deep red that honestly looked gorgeous. This was a rare moment that I lamented my short hair. I wanted more hair this colour. I wanted waves of red hair cascading down my back not a blunt ear length bob.
After a few colourful streaks of hair here and there came a six month emo phase which demanded I dye my hair jet black and nothing else. To complete the look I gave myself a heavy fringe which covered my eyes. This immediately prompted my mum to cut my fringe to my eyebrows so I could see. (But it’s how everyone’s wearing their hair now mum!) While the black hair dye didn’t last, the thick fringe was here to stay for a while.
After five years I was also missing the ultra short haircuts of my youth. Why did I ever care what these people thought of me? My dad was more than happy to oblige my request of a shaved nape. I kept it hidden at school, preferring it to be my secret but after school and during holidays I’d tie my hair up and show off this shaved section. I wasn’t long before the sides of my head were equally as bare and the weekly trips to our home barbershop had resumed.
For my final year of school I came to a decision. I’d started secondary school as myself, not who people wanted or thought I should be, and I’d be damned if I didn’t end my school journey as myself too. With the help of both my parents I walked into the first day of my final year at school with a purple bowl cut that rested a centimetre above my ears and killer dark purple makeup to match. Alright so I was told by my form teacher to tone down the makeup as it didn’t fit with school guidelines but I’d already made my statement.
Oh what’s that Olivia? You don’t like my hair. I’m devastated. I’ll have to change my whole style because you specifically don’t like it. Ha! By the way, remember that chin length bob you had in first year? Have you ever thought about going back to that style?
So for my final year of school I totally rocked that bowl cut, dyed it a different colour every couple of months and refused to give a damn if anyone said anything negative. Actually, once the surprise had worn off, I got several complements over the year and a few suggestions for hair colours when I got stuck.
I ended the year and my time at school in triumph. I also scored good enough grades to allow me into my first choice of university where I’d be studying graphic design.
(To be continued)
