A College Essay
“Why do you have a boy’s haircut?” the classmate next to me curiously asked.
In seventh grade, I came out as gay. Ignoring my mother’s concerned warning of “flaunting it,” I also cut off ten inches of hair. I didn’t feel worried though. The only gay woman I knew of was Ellen Degeneres, and if she could rock the pixie, then I could too.
Thus, I proudly told the classmate that I liked it short, and that “girls can have boy’s haircuts too, you know.” But his question replayed in my head for the rest of the day.
For me, discarding my long hair represented my pride in my sexuality. Pairing the new hairdo with a rainbow backpack pin—at first, I felt invincible. Nevertheless, I had seen the movies about high school; in just a year and a half, I’d be among the infamous network of cliques, where queer kids never seemed to find their place. Thus, as the end of junior high loomed on the horizon, the classmate’s simple question prodded my brain. My pride began to weaken, and I wanted to take everything back.
Ultimately, I concluded that I needed to have long hair by the first day of freshman year. I spent a month’s worth of allowance money on “hair growth” products at Target.
As the months passed, my once-beloved short hair grew to reach my shoulders again. A dismal relief washed over me when I looked in the mirror and saw, not myself, but a straight girl looking back.
I spent the next three years of high school with that same feeling. Although I longed to show the pride that my seventh-grade self expressed, fear overrode such a desire.
Today, I am proud to say that I overcame that fear.
The change happened gradually: joining my school’s Equity Team, asking a girl to Homecoming, and the most scary, writing an article about coming out in my school’s newspaper. I will never forget the day after the article was published, the last month of my junior year, when a fellow author approached me after class.
“Your article was amazing,” she exclaimed. “My younger sister is going through the same thing, and she felt so happy to see someone else like her.”
At that moment, my fear surrounding my sexuality vanished. Suddenly, I saw my twelve-year-old self who longed to feel normal. Only, she finally did.
At last comfortable with my identity, I decided it was time to see myself in the mirror again. Overwhelmed with the same excitement from six years ago, I walked into the hair salon and told the stylist what I wanted. Beaming, I watched as strands of hair fell to the floor.
Short hair, it’s nice to see you again.