‘Every Haircut is a Carefully Calculated Event’: How a Bi Bob Helped Me Accept My Sexuality as an Arab Muslim

By Karina Zae

My hair is long, curly, unlike that of my mother’s or her mother’s before her. I spent half of my childhood being told to brush my curls out and the other half having it slicked back into ponytails and braids. Having wild and untamed hair wasn't something my mother or her mother knew how to frame when sending me out into our community.

Cutting my hair was never fully up to me. The length of my hair, the colour of any hair dye and whether or not I got layers was ultimately up to my mother. I remember her taking me to the salon, sitting me on the chair and asking the stylist to cut exactly one inch off the bottom. No more. The man would always snip off more than she had instructed him to, and I would be so thrilled, but I wouldn't dare let my mother see my excitement. I suppressed it so much that I had to reteach myself that joy as I got older.

Each woman's ethnicity, features and fashion choices played a crucial factor in how they would be treated in every country I lived in. Each of these aspects was a moving variable in who would cut my hair, where I got it done, the length, the way I styled it, and my overall relationship with it regarding how I presented.

With a strict Muslim and Arab mother, whose views are very conservative, I had very little space to explore my identity in the way I presented physically. But after a while, I started pushing those boundaries slowly, first with a slight dip dye on the tips of my hair, then by dyeing it different shades of brown. Soon enough, I had experimented with every colour under the sun, destroying my long curly hair in the process.

Eventually, I settled on the colour blue. I now stand unsure if what I did with my hair was an act of rebellion or an exploration of my identity that started stirring slowly inside me after being exposed to Halsey and her vibrant blue hair and Haley Kyoko’s ‘girls like girls’.

The summer of this colour choice, I flew out to Egypt for our yearly family gathering while my aunts and uncles flew in from Saudi Arabia, the US and Germany. Arriving at my grandmother's house, I was met by a shocked and outraged aunt. Barely two steps into the door, I was dragged by the arm to the bathroom and placed in front of the vanity mirror. A pair of large red scissors were pulled out of the drawer. My hair was yanked sideways, and I had my long blue side braid chopped off. The cut was slow and painful; the blades were dull, and the final product was choppy and uneven.

As an Arab woman who has lived all over the Middle East, my relationship with my hair is complex. I started realising how people around me acted towards women with short hair, and the different levels of acceptance that were extended towards different hair lengths. This made every haircut a carefully calculated event. My aunt, finding my hair tacky, unclassy, and a sign of Western influence associated with being punk and gay, unknowingly gave me the Bi Bob that – despite their best efforts – pushed me to better accept my sexuality.

Being femme presenting, I felt a touch of survivor's guilt that I could get away with slightly shorter styles, but that never stopped me from asking myself: how short is too short? How short is short enough to start getting accused of being a dyke? Will a mullet, paired with my piercings, be the tipping point? Will the way I cut my bangs or pin up my curls be the difference between whether or not I feel safe walking around my cities? This created a conundrum. Discussing who I am openly was such a risky business that could cost me so much, and the way I presented carried a lot of weight. Finding a community became a difficult line to tread and as I grew this became an art form necessary for survival. 

My mother tried to exert her control over my sister and I in every way possible so that we would grow up into nice and proper Muslim girls; not only in our faith and morals but also the way we were presented to the world. I often wonder: if I wore a hijab, would it matter as much what my hair looked like? Would a veil automatically cloak me and cast away any suspicions over my sexuality?

My first haircut on my own was brought on by the fact that my hair had gotten extremely damaged from the stress of exams. I needed a change and colouring it wasn't an option. I was in the UK, and I found myself faced with a golden opportunity: find a stylist and cut my hair on my own with no outside influences. For the first time, I could do whatever I wanted with enough time to grow out of anything that would lead to harsh repercussions. I researched for weeks and found a woman I liked, booked the appointment and asked my best friend to come with me for much-needed moral support. I was holding my breath with every snip in fear of the final result.

I will forever remember the joy that haircut gave me. It felt like liberation; it felt as though I had moulted off my old self on that chair and stepped out of that salon a fuller, more whole version of myself. I now use that joy as a benchmark for every choice I make when it comes to my appearance and how I choose to authentically present myself to the world.