Long ago, I took scissors to my own hair, and got berated for it. I thought I'd been clever and considerate, since I wanted to cut something, and my hair was my own.
It would not be the last time I cut my own hair, but found out that others considered this wrong, as, apparently, my hair was not, in their opinion, my own to do with as I wished.
My mother had my hair cut in a Pixie, while I wanted to grow it out, because I was to be a flower girl for my cousin's wedding. I remember distinctly, in the back seat of the car, on the way home that night, when my allowance to grow it long had been rescinded. Well, couldn't have it looking like THAT, could we?
I had my hair buzzed, during those years when hair itself seemed too stressful, stopped in the grocery store after, a stranger who had been in the barber shop approached me, asking me - as though he had a right to an answer, why I had my hair cut like a boy? I countered that he didn't know me, had no right to even ask, none of his business, and, in addition, bugger off.
One of my National Guard officers, made a point, every drill, to comment on the length of my hair, as though it mattered to her in some way. I got so that I replied with non-commital grunts.
Hair, to me, is about self determination.
I wanted, now, in my life, to have long hair. I screwed it up, and now I have to deal. Not about being bad or good, just not what I'd chosen, save by my ill-considered choices. Chose the action, chose the consequences. I am getting very irritated at how many people seem to think their opinion is more right than my own taste about how I would prefer to look, and can't. Good friends, those of you who allow that I am right - but are just assuring me it's not so bad, fine, appreciated. Those who tell me I am wrong, it's much better this way, read Carolyn Hax.