Sexuality and Hair: The Day I became unwomanly and a butch

The first time I cut my hair, particularly short; I was about 16 years old. This was before the new “natural hair” trend that we are currently experiencing. Back then to be that young and bold (in the eyes of some) was truly a radical act. I went against what most thought as the proper performance of a girl/young woman. For me, it was one of the most liberating things, to date, that I’d ever done. I didn’t do it as an act of defiance to the scripts of womanhood. I did it because it felt right. It felt like me. It was freeing. 

Between the ages of 16 and 25 I experimented with many hair styles. You name it I tried it—braids, weaves, and naturals. My hair changed color depending on my mood. I had fun with my hair—for the most part. However, there was one thing that stayed constant during that time. I was never really in love with hair. I’m not a particularly fussy person and neither am I one to be moved by trends. However, I do know what I like and what I don’t. Hair is not high on my like list. 

Chrisette Michele

Around my 20^th birthday (sometime in the early 1990s) I went to the barbershop on Rutland Road in Brooklyn, NY. There was a barber in this shop who had the reputation of being excellent. I sat in his chair, after waiting for what felt like hours, and told him that I wanted a tight fade. He gave me one of the best fades I’ve ever had. Like clockwork, I would show up for my edge up and trim. One morning as I positioned myself in his chair an older man mumbled, just loudly enough for me to hear, “a woman should never do that to herself.” The barber and I both ignored him. Not being satisfied at the lack of response, he said louder “that’s just not right and it ain’t natural.” My barber stopped, looked at him and replied, “I saw her with long her and I’ve cut her hair this short. To me she’s even more beautiful now.” Interestingly when I wore a head full of weave and braids no one was ever so bold to say to my face that it was “unnatural”.  

Little did I know that cutting my hair and wearing a fade would illicit such responses. Some men were so bold as to ask me if I was a “butch”. My cousins were questioned about my sexuality. The only thing that changed was the length of my hair. Unbeknownst to me was that my hair sent messages about my sexuality. I did not know that long hair = heterosexuality. 

Walking the streets in NY became increasingly more challenging. Prior to my fade my non-response to cat calls resulted in me being cussed and accused of thinking that I’m better than others. In my post long, permed hair era, my refusal to respond to such calls resulted in more than who the “fuck do you think you are!” to “ain’t nobody want you, you fucking butch!” I was told how I needed some “good stiff dick” to rescue me from my perceived homosexuality.

What I did not understand was how in the time it took to cut my hair my sexuality had changed. Beyond exposing how hair is valued in society, my experience taught me about the functioning of society and what academia eventually taught me was marginalization. The questioning of my sexuality, vis-à-vis the length of my hair, reflects how we define the boundaries of our community. It speaks to how we determine who is allowed in and what allows them in. So I could pass and be accepted into the community simply by wearing a wig. That simple act would deflect some of the street harassment I faced.

But it wasn’t just gendered-sexed street harassment that I encountered. I also encountered censorship from some older Black women in the community. In a short period of time, I became the damaged Black woman. Some would ask I if was sick. It never entered their imagination that someone would willingly cut their hair as short as I wore mine at times. When I would respond that I’m not sick, eyebrows would raise ever so slightly. Some women were polite enough to let that be the extent of the reproach and questioning. Others would be bold enough to ask, “why would you choose to wear your hair that way?” Some quoted the Bible to me about how my hair was my crowning glory and how it was against the teachings of God for a woman to deface herself by cutting her hair. In my mind I would think, I didn’t break any of the Commandments so there is still hope for me to make it into the Kingdom. In the meantime, I just couldn’t be accepted among my people. 

How has your hair been used as acceptance or denial into particular communities?