My hair is an ever changing, constantly fluctuating being of curly, thick, coarse strands. I first dyed it when I was 14 years old, after I learned the family secret that my aunt and grandma were not in fact natural redheads. At the time, my hair was fairly long. It stayed relatively long and red for all of about a year, before I chopped it into an A-line below my ears, sending my curls into a frenzy.

My hair grew out some more for a few months before it was time for yet another change. I cut it into a very short bob after breaking up with one guy and starting a relationship with another (shoutout to everyone who has been THERE). My hair once again grew out for awhile, and I settled for dyeing it whenever I felt like making an extreme change.

The summer before my freshman year of college, my hair fell in layers to just below my shoulders. I had made the dramatic choice to go back to my more natural hair tone after I thought it would be a good idea to coordinate my hair color with my prom dress senior year--let us all take a moment of silence for things we did at 18 that we would never do again. It grew and grew into yet another long, curly, thick mess. I went back to a more auburn hue, and mostly threw it up in a ponytail for 99% of my life. That summer, I again chopped it to shoulder length only to let it grow from there...to cut it again...to get bangs...to dye it purple and red...to get CENTER bangs...to get another A-line bob, and finally to completely shaving the sides and back of my head. Shaving my head was a scary choice to make, even for someone who had spent $125 bleaching her hair to get it to be purple. It wasn’t a spontaneous decision. It was one that I made after lots of thought and lots of Pinteresting. At that point, a lot had happened in my life since I had last cut my hair. Almost like a tree, you could see the rings of color and changes in texture that made up my motley locks. It felt like I was carrying around rings of my past. I couldn’t ignore it. It was there every time I looked in the mirror. When I shaved it all off, it felt like I was letting go. To get cheesy and metaphorical, it felt like a moment of regrowth. I could start over again after all this damage I had unleashed from these years of change. Currently, I’m in the slow process of again growing my hair out. I get serious FOMO when I have long hair, and even more serious FOMO when I have short hair. So again, down it grows.

Over Christmas break, I had an interesting encounter with a guy who was dating one of my best friends. I noticed that he too had his hair shaved on the sides and long on the top. I made a joke that we had the same hairstyle. Everyone who heard laughed, and I thought that was the end of it. My friend informed me the next morning that after this guy noticed my hair, he had asked her if I was a lesbian. Now, I am in no way offended by that suggestion. What irritates me is the way he came to that assumption. If I had long hair, would he have quietly asked if I was heterosexual? It got me thinking weeks later about just how much meaning we assign to appearance.

It definitely says something about my level of privilege that at 22 years old this is probably the first time I’ve experienced the stereotyping of my appearance. Namely, it says that I’m exceptionally privileged. So let me align myself with everyone else who has been shouting the same message since the beginning of time: don’t judge me on my appearance. Let me speak about this from an angle that I know. Surprisingly, there’s no connection between my sexuality and the length of my hair. Just like there’s no connection between the length of my skirt and my consent. What I wear and how I express myself has little to nothing to do with other people. So don’t judge what you don’t understand.