A Different Kind of Representation

Buzz cuts, femininity, and Pink

Being a woman with really short hair means being both very visible and very invisible at the same time. We are visible because we are different. We are invisible because our cultural definition of what it means to be a woman includes long, flowing hair. To go against that expectation pushes back on what it means to be a woman, what it means to be feminine. It means that we don’t often see ourselves reflected in popular media. 

Even before I entered my 40s, most definitely my “don’t-give-a-fuck” era, I didn’t care too much about how society thought I should adorn myself. As a kid, I wore shirts buttoned up all of the way and tube socks pulled to my knees, and had a Dorothy Hamill haircut. I spent the first ten years of my career working as an exercise physiologist, meaning I wore workout clothes to work. Even after I became director of a medically-based wellness center, I still spent most days in yoga pants, as I taught classes and worked with patients around meetings with other administrators on campus. (I thought I was the smartest person in the world, finding a career where I wore comfortable clothes and sneakers to work.) 

In early 2012, when I cut my hair really short for the first time, I did it because I was tired. M’s accident was six months before (the short story - he nearly died, literally not figuratively, in a skydiving accident) and after experiencing the horrors that entailed, I decided I did not have the time nor the patience to fuss with my hair anymore. Life needed to be simple. Nothing else about my life was simple then. My job stressed me out for some very specific reasons, M was still in the midst of what would be a 14-month recovery, and dealing with my long, curly hair was one thing I could opt out of. I’d always dreamed of having a Halle Berry haircut. It took a few months for me and my stylist to get it that short, but once we did I was overjoyed. It was so EASY. 

I’ve tried growing my hair out many times since then, never making it past six months. I don’t enjoy the fuss. I miss my curls sometimes, and would love to have long hair one more time, but currently do not have the patience for it. I hate when there’s hair all over the bathroom, how it collects in the shower drain, and the products it requires. Having very short hair is really great for so many reasons. I can use most anything to wash it, use just one product (which seems to last nearly forever), and it is never in my face. I don’t even have to leave the house to get it cut, as M buzzes with a pair of clippers when he’s home every other week. 

When my sister and I took my niece to see Pink in November, I was excited to see what she’d do. I had seen some of her acrobatics online and knew she had an incredible voice, I figured we were in for a treat. And we were. As I mentioned before, it was the most fun I’ve ever had at a show. 

What I didn’t expect was how impactful it would be to see a woman on stage, dancing, flipping, and rocking out, sporting a platinum-blond mohawk, her head mostly shaved, with a snake tattoo on her thigh large enough that I could see it through her tights from our seats. She was only a few songs into her set when I was hit with a wave of unexpected emotion. I realized how rare it was to see a woman who looked like her in front of a crowd like this. A woman wearing a sequined bodysuit, black combat boots, and that fantastic mohawk. She wasn’t ethereal and delicate. She didn’t have a perfect blow-out tumbling down her back. She didn’t flip her hair while she danced (she did dance, a lot, but there was no hair to be flipped). Later in the show, she sang while hanging by her feet, and continued to sing while she pulled herself up to sit within the sling of silk hanging from the ceiling. It was a jaw-dropping display of strength. 

Pink doing Pink things at the show in November

At 48 years old, I didn’t expect to be so impacted by seeing someone like her on stage. I didn’t realize that someone like me - middle-aged, not into pop music, not too concerned with fitting in, someone who loves that Taylor Swift is Taylor Swift, would still benefit from seeing pieces of myself reflected in someone like Pink, would benefit from seeing pieces of myself reflected in so many other women there to see the show. Even in the crowd there was a kaleidoscope of aesthetics. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many women with short, weird haircuts and wearing my uniform of jeans and a plaid shirt, intermixed with so many sequins, so much pink, and long blow-outs. 

Something about the experience was very permission giving, in a way I can’t really articulate. When I think about representation, I think about it in more of a macro sense. Seeing people of our own race or ethnicity, sexual orientation, or gender expression (particularly when we’re of a marginalized/oppressed group) in visible roles in society. It turns out that there is room for a more micro version of it too. In this case, it’s an incredibly talented, athletic woman, who is in her 40s with short blond hair and a killer voice. People like her expand not only how we see each other, but how we see ourselves. And that’s the real gift of art, isn’t it? 

Until next time,

Kim