I’ve always wanted to shave my head, at least once in my life.

My mom used to say, “Hair is a woman’s crowning glory” and it always made me cringe a little. I was born with thick, brown hair and saw all around me that long hair was encouraged for girls—like it was something we should strive for. But what about the girls with short hair? Were they any less beautiful?

Sure, hair wasn’t a purchased item, but it still felt so material. I wanted what I said and how good of a person I was to be my “crowning glory," not my hair.

I think challenging femininity while still being proud to be a woman is powerful.

Growing up, I realized I was keeping it long because I thought I had to, and the upkeep wasn’t worth the little satisfaction it did give me when I took the time to curl or straighten it.

In my junior year of high school, I cut it short and eventually dyed it blue. Headbanging at concerts became easier and more fun, and I felt so light on my feet. Hair became my favorite form of self expression and boosted my confidence.

Then the thoughts of shaving it came back. How terrifying would it be to shave my head for the last semester of high school? I’d always dealt with self-confidence issues but I wanted to throw myself a curveball. Force myself to grow. Just like signing up for computer programming in the last semester of my high school career, I wanted a challenge until the day I graduated.

So, on December 2, 2015, my best friend and I had our heads shaved. And my legs turned to jelly.

To the shock (and immediate horror) of my parents’ reaction, my mouth dried up and my self-esteem felt stripped; I couldn’t find the words to explain why I’d done it. I was too shocked myself. At school I managed a short summary to each surprised class period: “I wanted to challenge my self-confidence," and was met with nothing but positive feedback, to my face at least.

Similar to those who wear hijab, I thought my value would now be in my words and actions; not my appearance. Instead, with my body in full view and nothing hidden under the shadow of hair and normalcy, I tore myself apart.

I could see my every single flaw in this blatant, clear and sad way.

I thought shaving my head would make me this badass, but I had never been so insecure in my life.

Before, my blue hair and was eye-catching in a fun, “I chose to do this” way. I stood out like the growing amount of blue-headed teenagers. With a shaved head I caught a different type of attention. People who never approached me just wondered why I did it. They whispered because they thought I was sick. It was even harder to get dressed because I felt the need to prove I was still a girl; I wore makeup more often and tried to smile more, to swallow the growing regret of my decision.

But this is what I had intended in the first place. It was a hell of a lasting and tough challenge like I knew it would be. Yes, I thought I’d actually be empowered by it, but I hadn’t known how.

That entire winter break, I worked on art and college essays to turn in by January. I spent time with family and friends who treated me just the same and hats miraculously hid the fact that I didn’t look like them anymore. I became more active in a program I was involved in and happier in occupying my time with positive people.

I didn’t want to dwell on my hair. I didn’t shave my head just to obsess over it. I found my goal again: to be my mind, my actions, and not my appearances.

There are beautiful women with shaved heads who all look like forces to be reckoned with.

I can’t promise I’ll shave it again one day, but I’m glad I shaved it at least once to understand the test of beauty, and like in an India Arie song, I am not my hair.

I thought that from shaving my head and being vulnerable, I would see my true self. Now I realize that I will never see my true self in the mirror. It comes from the inside. I was looking for my worth in all the wrong places.

Now I don’t need anyone to tell me that I look good.

I changed my own perception of beauty.