Bucket lists remind us of our limited time here; essentially they are a form of time management. Without taking stock of what we’ve done and what else we have to do, it becomes too easy to wake up one day wondering where our lives went. A bucket list keeps us on task and accountable to ourselves; they remind us that we are the ones driving this bus, and no one else can make our dreams come true but us.
Shaving my head was always on my list. I’m sure one of the reasons it was a staple had to do with being told I was a ‘pretty face’ all my life, and challenging that seemed important. It seemed important that by doing so I was inviting people to come face to face with their assumptions about how a woman should look, whilst simultaneously finding out if I had anything to offer if I was no longer ‘pretty.’ Getting a haircut, and let us not forget that that is exactly what we are talking about, should not be categorized as ‘brave.’
And yet…
We all know that it is. Every single one of us who understands on some level that a woman’s currency in this world is her femininity, her looks, how comfortable she can make others feel, knows that to shun society’s demands so blatantly confuses, scares and is, unfortunately, brave.
I did it because I was afraid of not being attractive to men anymore. And the feminist in me couldn’t let that go. First, I went to a salon and she used a number 2. I said it was fine. I paid her and left, then I proceeded to use the kitchen shears from the knifeblock of my rental apartment and my Gillette Venus razor. It took me two hours and my arms ached. I had such thick hair, it was awful. It was awkward and hard and so fucking frustrating. Slowly, painstakingly, I dragged the disposable blue razor over my sad and bumpy scalp feeling NOTHING like Demi Moore in GI Jane. It was an achingly slow process and grossly inefficient. I did it alone (typical) and knew that of course I must know someone with a set of clippers but I was too afraid of chickening out. I was afraid that the time required to ask for help, explain what I was doing and struggle to come up with an answer to the question, ‘why?’ would be all the time required to lose my nerve.
I’m not a brave person but I’ve done things that could be misconstrued as brave. In moments of weakness when my brain stopped functioning and my hands took over, there have been times in my life when others have seen me as having courage. And then it must be said, that at that point, it’s only been plain, stupid ego that kept me on the path of my stated intentions. Pride is how I found myself on a bus at 3am in Nicaragua with the lisping, curly-haired Australian and how I found myself living in a 2005 Pontiac Montana minivan for 12 months -- someone seemed to suggest that I couldn’t do it, and thus, of course, I then had to.
The head shaving was much more subtle. No one would have thought me eager to do it so no one felt the need to talk me out of it, but the insinuations of a culture that were making me feel trapped by the expectations it had for my body were becoming too much. I knew that at other times in my life I would have been passed over for jobs if my haircut had been too ‘extreme’ (see: nil) and I was calling bullshit. I was afraid and stubborn and terrified of finding out that by not being seen as ‘pretty’ I would no longer be seen at all.
Generally my moments of ‘brave’ have been about the story instead of the actual experience -- the equivalent of climbing a mountain simply to see how many Instagram likes the pic from the top will garner. It’s not NOT worth it, but just imagine the spiritual payoff if the motivation had been internal satisfaction instead of external validation. I was surprised then, that I still got valuable lessons from it; that it turned out to be meaningful despite how much I loved talking about it afterwards. It turns out something with questionable intentions can still be the right thing to do.
Shaving my head taught me what my version of ‘sexy’ was. Before then, I had no idea what mine was or that it was. Mine had always been about mirroring back what femininity was being sold to me as. I had no idea I had my own that was completely separate from the marketing campaigns. Up until then, even after breast reduction surgery, I’d been dressing to cover up and to not attract attention. I’d been dressing in a way to downplay the loudness of my personality. From the first time I was called a flirt at 14 I learned that your body will always give you away, always be seen as the truth, regardless of your words or intentions. Your body is what will determine your guilt. So I dressed in quiet colours and shapes to hide the fact that I had one. I knew I needed men’s attention to know I was valuable; and I also knew that the moment I looked like I wanted it, that value would be negated. It was a tightrope walk that having a rack the size of mine complicated even more. I had a loud laugh and big tits and you’re only allowed one or the other.
When I no longer assumed I was being looked at it then felt ok to look at myself for the first time. Assuming I had become invisible to men is what opened the doors up to short shorts and red lips. It was the cloak of invisibility I thought I had on that finally introduced me to my own sexuality, my own style, and showed me what I was comfortable dressing myself in for the first time since grade two when my navy and white Minnie Mouse dress was made fun of. That day I went home in tears and shut the part of me down that dressed only for myself. That same guard got even more cemented when, in puberty, my body started to develop.
When I took away the audience, who I thought I was dressing for, I could see how detached I’d been living from my own body -- I had successfully disassociated myself from it. It’s not that I hated my body, I just refused to acknowledge it. So much of being a young girl is learning to distance ourselves from our feelings and opinions, learning to make ourselves smaller and thus easier to love. Shaving my head was a very drastic and necessary step for me to take in order to confront a self I didn’t know existed. I didn’t do it with these intentions I did it because I was so afraid to and generally believe that fear is the path to growth.
At the time I couldn’t have definitively told you why shaving my head was important to me. I think my soul was craving something buried within the superficiality of it. A bucket list shows us not what we still have to do but what it is we feel is lacking in our everyday lives. The items on our lists show us what our souls are crying out for -- adventure, intimacy, growth. I was desperate for Truth. I was desperate to find out who I was underneath the person I was presenting myself to be. When I accomplished one of the items on my list, I realized the value was not in the act itself. Shaving my head was not the accomplishment, seeing that there was no reason to be afraid anymore was. There is more to this life than we are allowing ourselves, and challenging the norms and status quos are great ways to remind us of that -- but they aren’t the only ways.
Make a bucket list.
Then look closely and read between the lines. You do not have to shave your head or move to Europe to get at what it is your heart is crying out for. There is truth and intimacy and risk and adventure to be had exactly where you stand -- risk for risk’s sake will never deliver the satisfaction you’re craving. Your heart already knows what it wants, you just may not be speaking the same language right now. If you took a minute to write out everything you feel like you have to do before you die, I bet you’d find a common theme laced within the bullet points. There is something that you are after, some feeling you are avoiding admitting you crave. Take a minute, breathe deep, and ask yourself what is the one thing you need in order to know when you get to the end that you did it all?
Shaving my head was always on my list. I’m sure one of the reasons it was a staple had to do with being told I was a ‘pretty face’ all my life, and challenging that seemed important. It seemed important that by doing so I was inviting people to come face to face with their assumptions about how a woman should look, whilst simultaneously finding out if I had anything to offer if I was no longer ‘pretty.’ Getting a haircut, and let us not forget that that is exactly what we are talking about, should not be categorized as ‘brave.’
And yet…
We all know that it is. Every single one of us who understands on some level that a woman’s currency in this world is her femininity, her looks, how comfortable she can make others feel, knows that to shun society’s demands so blatantly confuses, scares and is, unfortunately, brave.
I did it because I was afraid of not being attractive to men anymore. And the feminist in me couldn’t let that go. First, I went to a salon and she used a number 2. I said it was fine. I paid her and left, then I proceeded to use the kitchen shears from the knifeblock of my rental apartment and my Gillette Venus razor. It took me two hours and my arms ached. I had such thick hair, it was awful. It was awkward and hard and so fucking frustrating. Slowly, painstakingly, I dragged the disposable blue razor over my sad and bumpy scalp feeling NOTHING like Demi Moore in GI Jane. It was an achingly slow process and grossly inefficient. I did it alone (typical) and knew that of course I must know someone with a set of clippers but I was too afraid of chickening out. I was afraid that the time required to ask for help, explain what I was doing and struggle to come up with an answer to the question, ‘why?’ would be all the time required to lose my nerve.
I’m not a brave person but I’ve done things that could be misconstrued as brave. In moments of weakness when my brain stopped functioning and my hands took over, there have been times in my life when others have seen me as having courage. And then it must be said, that at that point, it’s only been plain, stupid ego that kept me on the path of my stated intentions. Pride is how I found myself on a bus at 3am in Nicaragua with the lisping, curly-haired Australian and how I found myself living in a 2005 Pontiac Montana minivan for 12 months -- someone seemed to suggest that I couldn’t do it, and thus, of course, I then had to.
The head shaving was much more subtle. No one would have thought me eager to do it so no one felt the need to talk me out of it, but the insinuations of a culture that were making me feel trapped by the expectations it had for my body were becoming too much. I knew that at other times in my life I would have been passed over for jobs if my haircut had been too ‘extreme’ (see: nil) and I was calling bullshit. I was afraid and stubborn and terrified of finding out that by not being seen as ‘pretty’ I would no longer be seen at all.
Generally my moments of ‘brave’ have been about the story instead of the actual experience -- the equivalent of climbing a mountain simply to see how many Instagram likes the pic from the top will garner. It’s not NOT worth it, but just imagine the spiritual payoff if the motivation had been internal satisfaction instead of external validation. I was surprised then, that I still got valuable lessons from it; that it turned out to be meaningful despite how much I loved talking about it afterwards. It turns out something with questionable intentions can still be the right thing to do.
Shaving my head taught me what my version of ‘sexy’ was. Before then, I had no idea what mine was or that it was. Mine had always been about mirroring back what femininity was being sold to me as. I had no idea I had my own that was completely separate from the marketing campaigns. Up until then, even after breast reduction surgery, I’d been dressing to cover up and to not attract attention. I’d been dressing in a way to downplay the loudness of my personality. From the first time I was called a flirt at 14 I learned that your body will always give you away, always be seen as the truth, regardless of your words or intentions. Your body is what will determine your guilt. So I dressed in quiet colours and shapes to hide the fact that I had one. I knew I needed men’s attention to know I was valuable; and I also knew that the moment I looked like I wanted it, that value would be negated. It was a tightrope walk that having a rack the size of mine complicated even more. I had a loud laugh and big tits and you’re only allowed one or the other.
When I no longer assumed I was being looked at it then felt ok to look at myself for the first time. Assuming I had become invisible to men is what opened the doors up to short shorts and red lips. It was the cloak of invisibility I thought I had on that finally introduced me to my own sexuality, my own style, and showed me what I was comfortable dressing myself in for the first time since grade two when my navy and white Minnie Mouse dress was made fun of. That day I went home in tears and shut the part of me down that dressed only for myself. That same guard got even more cemented when, in puberty, my body started to develop.
When I took away the audience, who I thought I was dressing for, I could see how detached I’d been living from my own body -- I had successfully disassociated myself from it. It’s not that I hated my body, I just refused to acknowledge it. So much of being a young girl is learning to distance ourselves from our feelings and opinions, learning to make ourselves smaller and thus easier to love. Shaving my head was a very drastic and necessary step for me to take in order to confront a self I didn’t know existed. I didn’t do it with these intentions I did it because I was so afraid to and generally believe that fear is the path to growth.
At the time I couldn’t have definitively told you why shaving my head was important to me. I think my soul was craving something buried within the superficiality of it. A bucket list shows us not what we still have to do but what it is we feel is lacking in our everyday lives. The items on our lists show us what our souls are crying out for -- adventure, intimacy, growth. I was desperate for Truth. I was desperate to find out who I was underneath the person I was presenting myself to be. When I accomplished one of the items on my list, I realized the value was not in the act itself. Shaving my head was not the accomplishment, seeing that there was no reason to be afraid anymore was. There is more to this life than we are allowing ourselves, and challenging the norms and status quos are great ways to remind us of that -- but they aren’t the only ways.
Make a bucket list.
Then look closely and read between the lines. You do not have to shave your head or move to Europe to get at what it is your heart is crying out for. There is truth and intimacy and risk and adventure to be had exactly where you stand -- risk for risk’s sake will never deliver the satisfaction you’re craving. Your heart already knows what it wants, you just may not be speaking the same language right now. If you took a minute to write out everything you feel like you have to do before you die, I bet you’d find a common theme laced within the bullet points. There is something that you are after, some feeling you are avoiding admitting you crave. Take a minute, breathe deep, and ask yourself what is the one thing you need in order to know when you get to the end that you did it all?
Wow. Thank you for this. I . . . needed these words, needed to read them outside of my own head.
ReplyDeleteI’m yelling out into the abyss right now and it’s scary and hard. Thank you so much for sending a whisper back, Renee. Means a lot.
Delete