The long and the short of it

The term “androgyny” unfavorably brings to mind pale, sallow, insipid creatures that glide through life in their dismal, drape-y, anti-fit uniforms. For the past few months, I have lived in that so-called archetype and let me tell you it’s not despondent at all. This has a lot no wait, let me rephrase that this has everything to do with my hair. I have it cropped, jet-black, shaved at the back with a full curtain of bangs it needs no maintenance at all. And do I love it? Hell, yeah.

I decided to cut it all short not because i was going through a breakup or some emotional time in my life. Like every saturation point, I just woke up one day and decided that I wanted something dramatically different. No heart-wrenching story, no hail and brimstone. I just wanted the inevitable change. I’m not trying to make it sound like it was easy for me either, like I just chopped it all off and got over it with with an easy shrug of shoulders.

It was still hair. And I do know how a botched job can make regrowing it back the way you like it take forever. Reality was, I had it transitionally shrink through months Vidal Sassoon architecturally-cut shoulder length linearity for a year, and then a bob that was silky smooth, and then now, a literal bowl mop right on my noggin.

It’s quite clear that my choice of coif or lack of it is not going to win me any points in the beauty contest department or seal the deal in a shampoo commercial. I get mistaken for a Japanese boy sometimes and when all suited up, people call me “sir” instead of “ma’am.”

But I consider it a versatile advantage, an edgy signature that I can easily gender-bend into masculine styles with my preferred tailored suits, and still go all out femme fatale by flashing endless trotters on vertiginous killer heels and a touch of windblown blush on the cheeks and vampy red lips.

Though I’m not really one to seek validation on something as trivial as getting a cut, I did bring it up with the boyfie. Obviously, 99 percent of the male population like their girls in the pastel vision of the norm long hair, ladylike, conservative.

But not my guy. He just said: “I’m sure I’ll get used to it.” Of course he also shops with me, likes fashion, devours cuisine the same way I do and plays the same Aussie/Brit indie dance fodder that makes scenesters pump their fists in the air. But then, that’s a different story. The first time he saw me with the new precision finish scarcity of locks, he just said: “I like it.” And that was that.

So really, ultra short hair and androgyny, aside from the fact that without heels and makeup, I can be misconstrued as one from the third kind, feels pretty much like seeing yourself for the first time on video after the initial awkward moment, you get used to it and it grows on you. By now, all my friends say its so me (though they also said that the last time when it was chopped block of layers). And, it actually evolved into an egotistical idiosyncrasy being identified not by my name but rather my hair.

I’ve often times been compared with the Yeah Yeah Yeahs front woman Karen O, and although she, with her bold, David Bowie-ish rockability, commands a lot of attention, I’d rather be likened to Japanese model Tao Okamoto. Subliminally, I might even have copped the look from her. All high cheekbones, sunken contours and hair that falls right above almond-shaped peepers. Don’t we all want to be supermodels?

More than the going out of the parameters of the norm, having short hair is more than a rebellion. Google anything related to cropped ‘dos on women and it always alludes to some sort of anarchy, the elemental convention being that women should have long tresses. And in the subconscious throwback of everything having to be rightfully in placemen to work, woman at home the archetype easily falls into its’ ideal, that going short means one has to prove something to the society a breakaway from what is considered the formula. In reality though, I only did it because I wanted something low maintenance that would still look edgy. And I’m guessing everyone else did it more (at least in this generation anyway) for readjustments to aesthetics as opposed to proving a point.

But at the end of the day, going through the motions for a hairstyle that suits me to a capital tee proved to be more than just an aesthetic rework, it actually became a crucial part of my consciousness. I found out that like the power of names to define, hair can also create personas. It opens up a whole new world of wardrobe choices. My shot of short jet-black hair just looks more aggressive on everything. And I’ve paired it with ultra-feminine looks to editrix hard lines of tailored suits and skinny trousers. But then, I’ve never been one to settle comfortably with one thing, when there’s a gamut of alternatives to be had.

So, once again, I’m at the precipice of change, on to the next. I’ve an after-lunch appointment at Davines Hair on Monday. Battle plan: keep the shape, but change the shade. Platinum blonde this time. Maybe I’ll see if blondes do have more fun.