The good people here at Project Beauty are well aware that I’ve been spending an inordinate amount of time tackling issues that have to do with hair: waxing hair, flattening hair and now this: Cutting hair. (Warning: I probably won’t stop here… so brace yourself for future hair posts.)

But, hey! This is life-or-death business here! Just look at what happened to poor Samson once his hair was chopped away by that strumpet Delilah – there he was, all Harlequin Romance Cover-Manly - when suddenly, with a snip of the shears he was reduced to a quivering, insecure girlie-man. Hair is one’s crowing glory! Hair is the window to the soul. Wait. That’s not right, is it? Hmmm…. (stumped).



Regardless, the question is an age old one and also one that has been getting all sorts of press lately: Should a gal of a certain-age be expect to cut her hair?

In a recent New York Times article entitled "Why Can't Middle-Aged Women Have Long Hair," writer Dominique Browning states her case incredibly eloquently as she defends… no… relishes in her long, graying heap of hair which prettily adorns her 55 year-old head.

“I feel great about my hair.” she says. And with her talk of mermaids and cowboy lovin’ Grandmas (read it… you won’t regret it) I believe her.

You readers who are regulars to Project Beauty’s blog should be well aware by now that I have… um… “issues” with authority. Anytime I hear of any decision being foisted upon a woman due to societal, cultural or fashion norms, I immediately feel my inner five year-old gearing up for an arms and legs flailing tantrum. But I’ll attempt to keep it together long enough to finish this post.

When I was in junior high, I remember my Step-Mom (Hi, D – Love you!) telling me that as a woman got older she would need to cut her hair. My Step-Mom was a beautician, so she should know, right? And she dutifully chopped her beautiful, long black hair into variations of a respectable shoulder-length bob in her early 30’s. Her reasoning was something to the effect of “you don’t want to look like mutton dressed as lamb.” And while barnyard references seemed a touch off-topic, I got what she was saying. Which is not to say that I agreed.

However, fearing that my time may be limited, I started to grow my curly, blond hair (I know, people. I’m a brunette now… hair dye is a beautiful thing.) out and out and out. By the time I got to college it was pretty near fairy-tale length, hence the nickname given to me by a one-time dorm-mate, ‘Rapunzel’. ‘Punz’ for short. And voila! I found some sense of definition in the very thing that I would be expected to dutifully cut when I wasn’t even middle-aged - like shorn sheep. And what of the identity that was so closely tied to my mane? Would I have to snip that off as well? It seemed, at the time, that the two were intrinsically linked together.

Now that I’m more seasoned (and spicy - thank you very much), I realize that I am neither defined by the length of my hair, nor by the dictates of such old-fashioned expectations. But in moments of self-consciousness, I sometimes still question whether or not my long, dark, straight hair-do is a little ‘too young’ for me… should I follow the little voice (that sounds uncannily like my Step-Mother) that occasionally prompts me to hack it all off?

Browning states a multitude of reason’s for other peoples displeasure with the length of her hair: from accusations of ‘acting out’, to diagnoses of ‘still living in the past’, to long hair being ‘high maintenance’ – um, pardon me… but all hair is high maintenance. It just is. And she unloads round after round of sound logic dispelling them all.

Not to get all historical up in here, but… hey… let’s get historical up in here! For centuries hair has been a symbol of power: flappers chopped it off in a blatant and spirited display of personal freedom, hippies grew it out in another blatant and controversial display of personal freedom and Lady Godiva wore hers long and lose in a blatant display of attempting to hide her… uh… ‘personal freedom’ (and lady bits). Hair has long been seen as the embodiment of power, a way to sway the outcome of events, the epitome of female beauty – a woman’s crowning glory. (Ever heard of a fairy-tale princess with a pixie cut? Nope? Me neither.)



So why should any woman in her teens, thirties, sixties or eighties have to cut it off? Is she no longer sexy? Unable to participate in the excited misbehavior of a woman in her twenties? Unwelcome in the arms of that special someone who once longed to run their hands through her luscious locks? I think not.

For heavens sake, just think of what would have happened had that poor schlep of a Prince not happened upon Rapunzel’s tower before she hit upon the ripe old age of 30? She’d still be firmly encased in that blasted tower, wasting her life away waiting for someone else to rescue her. I can confidently say that if today’s ultimately capable and modern woman is quite qualified to save herself – thank you very much – without waiting for some Prince to come and yank her hair out by using it as a climbing device; shouldn’t she be trusted to decide how she’d like to wear her hair? The answer, in a word, is yes.



'til Next Time!"