A Knotty Problem: Politics of My Hair
“Fascinating research on girlhood is happening these days. It confirms that young girls often feel strong, courageous, highly creative, and powerful until they begin to receive undermining sexist messages that encourage them to conform to conventional notions of femininity. To conform they have to give up power.”
- bell hooks, communion: female search for love
I have always had medium-length hair, with the exception of mushroom haircuts that were only socially acceptable till the age of five. The playful experimentation of my appearance was only tolerated in my girlhood. When I was 15, I remember asking my grandmother whether I could cut my hair up to my ears: “When you are married, you can do whatever you want.” I remember asking a past love what he would think if I cut off my hair: “Long hair looks better.” I remember asking my father, who was at a loss for words: “Par kyun katna hai?” Why do you want to cut off your wings?
An Indian woman’s long, luscious hair is viewed as her most treasured prize, equated with the prestigious status of an angel’s wings. In the depiction of Kali Ma – the Hindu Goddess of creation, preservation, and destruction – her lengthy, flowing hair is seen as a godly force of feminine sexuality. We see the celebration of long hair in the Gods we pray to, to the advertisements we consume. Bollywood stars and light-skinned models dance around the television screen advertising the latest hair styling products, flipping their hair from one side to another, as it bounces with impeccable shine. Playing on the fantasy of being a woman, the sales of shampoo, conditioners, and products that promise hair-lengthening effects collect millions of rupees annually.
Kali Ma, the Hindu Goddess of creation, preservation, and destruction
Indian actress Priyanka Chopra in a Pantene India Ad
But the divine feminine force – long, luscious hair – that is praised in Kali Ma and other such celebrities, is constantly policed in women of all ages. Women in the workplace are ordered to tie their hair so as to not be a “distraction” for men in the workplace. Married women are familiar with the “saar dakhlo” procedure, hide your head with a dupatta, because a woman’s hair that is representative of her divine female sexuality is only for her husband’s gaze. The embodiment of female sexuality is completely annihilated in a widowed woman when she shaves her head, a gendered performance that represents abstinence from sexual pleasure and engagement in celibacy.
In the patriarchal universe, three things are certain. Firstly, feminine sexuality is largely associated with hair. Secondly, hair is monitored and policed, for the pleasure of men. Lastly, once a South Asian woman’s hair is chopped off, so is her status as an angel, a divine feminine being.
To nurture patriarchy’s vision of what it means to be a “divine feminine being”, rituals to cultivate long hair have been inscribed into my spirit intergenerationally. At the end of every week, my grandmother, mother, aunts, and elder female cousins would dip their fingers into a bottle of Parachute: “Good for hair growth.” Their fingers would gently massage my scalp. In a dream-like state, my eyelids would soften, the smell of coconut oil wafting through our home, and the day would come to an end. This ritual allowed me to unwind in the warm embrace of my mother and grandmother. The very practices that upheld patriarchal structures also provided a space for communion and connection. Women in my family had created a recipe book to navigate the male-dominated world in each other’s embrace.
2010: My sibling, applauded for many qualities, including their hair
The recipes, however, came at a cost. It whispered to us the traditional notions of femininity, hissing that these norms would continue to keep us safe and protected from societal shame. Hair is more than just a physical feature. It is loaded with cultural and patriarchal significance. And a haircut remains fraught with emotional trauma, bearing layers of questions regarding one’s construction of self and sexual identity, and ultimately, a woman’s worthiness in a male-dominated world.
In a quest to determine my worth beyond how well one conforms to patriarchal rules and regulations, I hastily decided to chop my hair with my sister. While I was firm in my decision to do so, my legs nonetheless quaked and my breath still trembled as pieces of hair fell onto the plastic wrap tied around my neck. That is the thing about resistance and rebellion against oppressive structures, it is simultaneously one of the most liberating, terrifying and vulnerable acts.
Our chosen family cheered us on. Strangers' gazes lingered for longer than usual. But perhaps the most frightening response, the one we convinced ourselves we didn’t care about but truly cared a lot about, was from our parents. In their embrace, we had first been introduced to many of the patriarchal rituals that we found ourselves fighting against. Unsurprisingly, they met our haircuts with a screaming silence. A silence that violently questioned what lengths our disobedience would go to before we began to pull all kinds of structures apart, including the ones that our loved ones found comfort in. My father, again, gently asked, “Par kyun katna hai?”
I no longer desire to have wings that only have the ability to soar in a patriarchal universe. I am learning to understand divine feminine sexuality, beyond the male gaze. I am on the path of creating wings that support me and my navigation of this layered duniya, instead of defining me and my womanhood.
Lubnah Ansari dissects notions of personal and political questions with fervent curiosity. Utilizing her multidisciplinary skills, the artist and researcher sheds light on the concept of making space for unsung stories with films on interfaith marriages in South Asia and the Gulf. With work that has been presented in Los Angeles, Hong Kong, Jaipur, and Abu Dhabi, the NYU Abu Dhabi graduate has immersed herself in the roles of both the insider and the outsider, which gives her work a refreshing angle that urges you to tap into your compassion.
Images courtesy of the author