I shaved my head

and conducted an imaginary interview all about it.

An imaginary interview with me about shaving my head as a 41-year-old woman:

Me: Why’d you do it?

Me: Always wanted to. Always been a little too afraid. A little too insecure. Maybe I less wanted to do it than I sensed it as an inevitable rite of passage. A form that was always mine, calling to me. A form I had to both

a) be brave enough to step into and 
b) really want for myself.

Not because it was a rite of passage even, or because I felt obligated, or because ‘I sensed it as my true form’ (I can’t believe I say this shit and, what’s more, that I really mean it) or because I told everyone I was going to when I turned 40, but then I chickened out because I wasn’t actually ready — but because I thought it would be beautiful. I did it because I thought I was beautiful. I did it for me. I did it for beauty.

Did you actually shave it yourself?

I took two solid swipes for a sense of satisfaction and for the photo op. It felt soooooo good. You know that song by the Rolling Stones? I can’t get no satisfaction? It plays in my head on my worst days. But for those moments, I got some. Some of the deepest I’ve ever known.

My kids shaved the rest of it.

Your kids shaved the rest of it? Cool. What was that like?

Probably more cool for me than for them. My 16-year-old, Wren, concurs. She says, “it was like you still were familiar but you looked different.”

So there you go.

When I was hyping it up for the years before I turned 40, they were all in. Then when 40 came and went and I didn’t do it, things settled. They seemed relieved. They started saying things like,

 “You’d look too frail.”

And

“You won’t feel like Mom without hair.”

But they knew it was important to me. So when the time came, they were all very sweet. In their own way.

 Ok, well, my oldest, Myra, who is 18, did make a joke to our friend Ryan, as we were unpacking the car to walk to the shaving location. I asked her if she wanted to carry the bag or the chair, and Myra said,

“No Mom, you shall carry the chair like Jesus carried the cross.”

Then she turned to Ryan and said,

“She’s been acting like she’s dying all day.” 

It was so good.

And so harsh.

And so funny.

And so true. 

Takes a hilarious, melodramatic diva to know one. Which is probably why Myra was also the kid giving me the most reassuring, loving, compassionate looks throughout. 

Wren, our resident ‘doer’, took charge with the clippers. She used the wrong guard and made me more bald than what we all planned for. Which ended up perfect because I don’t think I would have been happy with anything less than pretty bald.

Then Shiloh kept being sweet and trying to comb through my hair while I still had it and I had to tell him to be softer because he kept accidentally pulling it. And then he wanted to take a photo with clumps of my hair falling out of his hands, but I think I was the only one who heard him. 

I didn’t take him up on it because I was feeling a little manhandled, and EXTREMELY VULNERABLE (the one thing we forgot to bring was a mirror so everybody could see me but me) and now I really wish I would have honored his tender, poetic impulse.

We all thought I would cry, but it was much more jokey and light-hearted than that. We had fun with a couple intermediate hair styes like a french bob and mohawk mullet.

The pictures make it seem VERY serious — which ok, yeah. That is how I was holding it inside. I admit it. I've been through a lot. They’ve been through a lot. We’ve been through a lot. But that heavy resonance sort of came and went among something more gentle. 

The pictures and the light were so beautiful. Where were they taken? 

Thank you! These are taken during golden hour along the Shoreline Trail in Provo, UT*. It's a really meaningful spot for me. I go nearly every day. I've cried, wandered, lived across from and transformed there many times through the years. I like the idea of the earth witnessing us as we witness it. Those mountains are my teachers as I’m sure they've been for those here long before me. 

I'm lucky to have close and talented (cuz like, what if they were crappy?) photographer friends, Ryan Muirhead and Roger Ellsworth, around, who I invited to document. Still waiting on the film. 

Do you feel different? 

Yes and no. I had this fantasy that I would suddenly own all of the superpower I believe we each have and really work the camera. But nope. I still felt a little shy and weird, like myself. Still twitched a little when the camera steadied on me. Still had trouble totally dropping into a calm nervous system. Still had trouble not thinking more about how everyone else there was feeling and instead attuning to my own experience. 

I guess I feel even more like myself. And she is powerful. And she is shy. And she is good with people. And she is vulnerable. And she can really perform/be real sometimes. And she can really make it awkward others. 

I feel like I'm embodying all these things that the overculture says don't belong together and wearing them with delight, saying, “oh but they could and do go together,” and also “shouldn't they because aren't we all this gorgeous human mashup of contradictions before the brainwashing took us?” Let's remember that. Let's let ourselves be that. Let's contradict even as we reconnect. Let’s be human. Let’s be art. 

Do people treat you differently? 

Yeah they do, actually! It's fascinating. I'm sure it would be different if I lived in a big city where they see it all on the daily. But I live in Provo, Utah. 

So. 

Bear in mind that I’m fascinated with perception, especially the way most of us don't see anyone else at all — we just see ourselves and what we believe — so sure, it's possible that I’m imagining all this but —

I’ve also worked for years, as a photographer, at refining my sight. At looking beyond. At reading people and body language. 

Plus I think we should play with both how we are perceived and how we perceive others more…

Anyway, I swear to god I feel this ripple move through the room when I enter a space. So many women or female-presenting people get this glint in their eyes — this 'I've always wanted to do that and now maybe I will’ kind of far-away look. 

There is fear in some eyes too. Discomfort. That’s ok. 

I've waved at people and smiled directly and been ignored. I think it's mostly confusion. I love when people can't mask uncomfortable emotions. They are healthy. 

I think many men or male-presenting people feel attracted to it. It feels weird to admit that. They’re attracted for a second and then they either shake it off because it doesn't compute, or they double-take a little bit later with curiosity. Like, what IS that? And why do I feeeel these things.

Again, this could all be a projection because I feel like a primal, sexy animal and delicate baby** at the same time, but it's fun to consider. Great question. 

Yeah, I’m glad I asked. I think that's all we have time for today, but this has been really fun. Thanks Yan.

You’re welcome, Yan. I had fun too. I'm sure I’ll be talking about it for a long time. Did I tell you it feels like icy hot? Did I tell you it's like a bulb-shaped divining rod growing from my neck?

Um, (nervous laugh) I must have missed that. Thanks again…I uh – I have to go. 

Oh okay, yeah. See ya.

xx,

Yan

p.s. THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR ALL THE LOVE ON MY IG POST!

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*I acknowledge that Provo stands on the shared, ancestral, unceded lands of the Ute, Shoshone, Paiute, and Goshute peoples, and I honor their enduring connection to this land. I support efforts to restore and return it to Indigenous care.

**My friend Craig Webster from college wrote a song called “I'm a Sexy Baby” way before Tay. I'm not saying she stole it, but…