Hair Stories

The Sacred Strands of Our Identity

I was born bald. I’ve been told that my grandmother, upon seeing me in my mother's arms, sorrowfully exclaimed, "Oh, Sylvia, it's so sad, and your first daughter, too." I was deemed ugly, hairless. A story that would unconsciously shape my relationship with my appearance for decades to come.

As a little girl, I had mousy brown hair that my mother kept short. An early humiliation etched into memory involves going to a shopping mall with my brothers and having a shop clerk exclaim what good little boys we all were.

Growing up, I recognized that my stick-straight, oily brown hair was not an asset to my femininity. It was a hindrance, and I knew it. When Flashdance came out and Jennifer Beals was a pop icon, I convinced my mother to let me get a perm. I loved that perm. It didn't last very long because my hair was so defiantly straight, but while I had that full head of wavy hair, I felt more... I don't know... more feminine. Prettier.

In my twenties, I kept my hair short. I thought short hair meant professional, the path to be taken seriously. I came to learn that a bigger obstacle to being taken seriously was being female.

The Red Years

In my forties, I decided I was ready to color my hair. I wanted it to be a particular shade of auburn red. I thought it was going to make me feel more empowered.

But I didn't want to look like I was trying too hard, so I couldn't do it suddenly. It took five years, and a lot of patience, and a ton of money to achieve that auburn color.

And I loved it.

Nothing else much changed. Life still filled me with highs and lows, but I loved my hair.

Cancer and Loss

Then at 59, I was diagnosed with cancer. The treatment would cause my hair to fall out. And I grieved.

In anticipation, I cut my hair. People remarked: "How cute, how chic, how lovely!" I tried to smile, to be grateful for their compliments. And I was anything but grateful.

And then it fell out completely. I refused to let anyone, even my husband, see it. I took a some pictures to document the experience, but I’ve never shown them to anyone until now. Because shame had washed over me. The shame of the ugly baby. The ugly bald unloveable girl. A story in my head.

When hair began to sprout, I decided to stop covering my head. People talked about how amazing it was, my military buzz cut. "How cool, how great, how wonderful," they said. And I was unmoored and scared. But it was hard to talk about. We talked about my hair.

I didn't color it again. Hair dye was toxic... I just didn't see the point.

Now I'm undergoing treatment that's causing my hair to thin. I'm surprised by how little I care this time around.

That's my hair story.

My Daughters’ Hair Stories

I have two mixed race daughters. My first daughter was born without any hair, like me. I thought she was a magical creature. When her hair came in, it was blonde. The world saw her as white.

My second daughter was born with a head of black curls. I thought she was a magical creature. The world saw her as Black. Here in Marin County, where my girls were raised, the world wanted to touch her, wanted to touch her hair. It frightened her so, and I would braid it to keep people's hands off my child.

When she got older, she begged to have it chemically straightened. We tried that to shield her from the world's gaze and its hands. It wasn’t until her late twenties that she allowed her hair to be its natural self.

And that’s my story of my daughters’ hair. They have their own hair stories.

Your Hair Stories

Hair is more than protein and keratin growing from our scalps. It communicates.
It whispers, shouts, flirts, defies. We love to talk to it, talk about it, decode it. It’s woven into how we see ourselves and how others see us. It marks life transitions. It is a canvas for self-expression.

Our hair holds stories. What's yours? Some possible prompts to spark your storytelling:

• What's your earliest memory involving your hair?

• Has your relationship with your hair changed over time?

• When did your hair make you feel powerful? Vulnerable?

• Did your family, friends or workplace inform your hair choices?

• How has your cultural background influenced your hair journey?

I'd love to hear your story in the comments below or via email at elizabeth@colabcoach.com. I might feature some (with your permission) in a follow-up post so we can weave a beautiful tapestry of experiences around this profound aspect of our identities.

Your story matters. Each perspective adds something valuable to our collective understanding and connects us across different experiences, cultures, and backgrounds.

I promise to hold each story as sacred.

If you know anyone who might be willing to share their hair story, please send them my way.