Culture, Growth, Rebellion: The Symbolism of Hair Change

By Charlotte Zhang

We all know the age-old joke: a woman changes her hair after going through a major life event. 

It’s undeniable, the symbolism of hair change. In a very literal sense, changing your hairstyle can change the way you look drastically. There certainly is truth to the idea that changing your outer appearance can have a big impact on your sense of self and inner life. 

The mythology surrounding hair may seem trite, but it has a long history behind it. Hair, and the way one presents it, is often tied to culture and heritage. Consider the controversies surrounding the appropriation of different cultures’ hairstyles or the age-old traditions regarding hair length and style within some religions.

For me, hair has always taken on a more personal valence. Growing up, my mom was a hairstylist. As such, my hair has gone through various transformations over the years, both with her aid and not. At seven years old, I got blonde highlights. At ten, a perm. I was subject to a thousand haircuts and styles over the years: bangs, straightened, curled, long, short, layered. In short, I was my mom’s guinea pig.

Later, when I entered college, I began the endless cycle of dyeing. It started with a bad bleach balayage, which then turned into an expensive 8-hour salon silver. When that faded, my hair was at the mercy of various shades of cheap box dye. Blue, pink, purple, a sickly green, and every colour in-between. Oftentimes, I dyed my hair at the start of new semesters to indicate a fresh start, both to myself and others.

After graduating from university in 2019, I joined the Peace Corps. Four weeks after arriving in the country of Malawi, along with a few other girls in my cohort, I shaved my head. It’s odd how something so banal can be seen as bold or intriguing. And yet, somehow it was. 

We each had various reasons for chopping off all our hair, ranging from adapting to the hot climate to fitting in with the local style. But ultimately, our real reasons were probably far more personal. Maybe it was to prove something, to broadcast our personalities or to send some sort of message. For what is physical expression if not a way to show others who we are – or more accurately, who we want to be. 

Ridiculous as it is to say, I think I had expected to feel changed after the buzzcut. Perhaps a part of me had hoped to feel liberated in some way, freed from the literal and metaphorical weight of hair and all that it represented – gender norms of femininity, societal expectations, conformity. Something like that. But really, embarrassingly, the experience simply made me vividly aware of my appearance. 

Of course, though, as it always does, my hair grew out over the next few years. I underwent various other life transitions and subsequent hair changes. I moved to a new state, started a new job and entered a new phase of life. While Peace Corps was the phase of the buzzcut, New York was purple hair. Then blonde. 

Each new colour and cut marked a new season of my life, a new personality I wanted to try on. For me, hair change was a way to demarcate and bookmark a transition. I desperately wanted something to indicate to myself that time was passing and that I was growing. Or maybe, I facetiously sought maturation and healing in the hair salon chair. 

Hair has also always been a way to externalise my inner emotions and individuality. In some cases, it has been an outer manifestation of my attempt to escape an internal struggle or a way to rebel. It has in turns been my pride and joy, my shame and struggle. It may just be hair, but it’s also so much more. 

I am still young. There are still plenty of years and hair salons in my future. I know one day, if I am lucky enough, I will contend with ageing and greying hair. Maybe at that point, I will be someone who eschews hair dye and instead maintains my natural hair colour. Or maybe I’ll continue to love the changes and sense of control that comes with hair alterations. 

Does my hair change who I am? The answer, for better or worse, is no. At the end of the day, I am still me, no matter what I look like or how people see me, and I’m slowly learning to accept and appreciate this fact.