I don’t think I’ve ever had such a swift reaction as the one I experienced immediately following the unceremonious chopping off of my hair. I could still feel the pressure of the rubber handles etched between my fingers when I eased those wretched shears onto the bathroom counter and took in the fruits of my handiwork. I’d woken up with my hair on my head but after six or seven reckless snips, it was strewn on the floor. In contrast to the white tile underfoot, it looked like an awful lot, like I’d just lopped off a mass of Esperanza Spalding’s locks instead of my own. I was romanticizing the glory of those befallen strands, of course, but the stark reality of what lied beneath them spurred an epiphany.

I looked in the mirror.

Then back at the floor.

Then, slowly, reluctantly, unbelievingly, I eased my gaze back into the mirror again.

On top of my head, where my signature, just-below-shoulder length wrap had hung since I’d wrangled authority from my mama to style my own hair, there was a halo of brown, cottony-looking bushiness. It lay shorter on the sides, packed tight at the top and gave up just a little hangtime around the nape, reminiscent of Bobby Brown’s shaggy back bang circa the Don’t Be Cruel era or Lester Jenkins’ perpetually misshapen box on 227. I hated it. Not the hair itself, though it was definitely far from perfect, but the way I looked underneath it.

My decision to grow out my perm wasn’t a me too! hop on the natural hair bandwagon nor was it the aftershock of some rebirthed commitment to my blackness. I was just as power-to-the-people in a wash and set as any sister in an Afro or dreads. I gave it a go to try something new and to allow my hair a well-deserved break from the deep-fried straightening process of the Dominican salons I’d faithfully patronized since the first Bush administration. I’d grown it out for months, trying to press the new growth to meld as inconspicuously as possible with the habitually relaxed ends. For a while, the effort was successful until a run-in with a bad, sulfate-free shampoo broke it all off and accelerated the inevitable.

So there I was, standing barely past sunrise on a Saturday morning, teeth unbrushed, face unwashed and topsy-turvy with my hair by my feet. But unlike so many other Black women who’ve celebrated the exhilaration of the big chop and reconnected with their minimalistic beauty, I didn’t feel free and I certainly didn’t feel cute (and wouldn’t have even if I had gotten around to brushing my teeth or washing my face). I felt awkward, I felt homely and I felt a trip the closest African braid shop coming on. I don’t mind telling you I was her first client of the day. Literally. First in the chair. And I’ll keep going back as a gold star customer until this crop grows back out. God bless the inventor of the kinky twist.

What an unfortunate discovery it is to learn that your face is not designed for short hair after you’ve scissored it to shreds. Bernadine did it in Waiting to Exhale and it was a hit. Janelle Harris did it in Washington, DC and it was a fail.

It’d always been one of my best assets, that hair, but I hadn’t realized just how much of a security blanket it had also been. I’ve never been “pretty” under the general definition of what “pretty” is, and that’s OK. Not everyone is a great beauty—someone has got to be average and I was unknowingly volunteered for the job. But seeing myself in that brazen stage of almost baldness brought to the fore all of the flaws I bemoaned but conveniently distracted from with sassy updos and fresh wraps and cute bangs.

Without my hair to hide under, all I could do was focus on the perceived mistakes Mother Nature had made. No pair of dangling earrings or dusting of makeup was going to compensate, and I just didn’t feel comfortable enough to embrace that version of myself. It was keeping it just a smidge too real for my liking.

Once, I accidentally died my hair platinum blonde after a bright idea, too much time on my hands and close proximity to a beauty supply created the perfect storm for an attempt at doing my own highlights. I had to rock a ponytail weave for months while my poor tresses recuperated after that debacle. Another time, I put relaxer on my new growth—while I had a headful of Poetic Justice box braids, mind you—in an effort to stretch the time between touch-ups. But none of those boo-boos compare to the baggage the big chop forced me to confront about how I look at myself, especially in the honest hours of the morning when it was just me and a spur of the moment rendezvous with a pair of scissors.

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  • I did the bc a few weeks ago and I love it! But it is not for the insecure.I love how it suits me..

  • My Bc wasn’t as intense as Janelle’s although it was faded down to damn near to the skin. I actually cringed alittle bit in the early days but as it grew out alittle bit, I was cool with my twa. I turned plenty of heads, shortly after my BC I colored my hair, and it looked awesome. I did the big earrings and make up, but it still required supernatural confidence to walk outside in the public bald headed and still feel like you are the ish. I was cool with the twa phase…but I’m loving that I have more hair to play around with these days. I will be 1 yr natural next month. YAY!!!

  • RyG

    You are entitled to wear your hair anyway you want. Confidence has to do with how YOU see yourself on the inside and out. If you are not comfortable being natural then find ways that make you love you. Worrying about how others feel is not important. I did the big chop, wore my hair short and I was natural for close to two years, my hair had grown a lot, and is naturally curly. However, I recently put a quick relaxer in my hair because I did not feel comfortable with the fro. I like the loose curls and I am happy. Hair Is HAIR and always will be. Do you…

  • Shady

    I did the B!g Chop several years ago on a wim. I took the scissors to a trusted friend early one morning and simply said, “DO IT.”. She asked if I was sure, then started cutting. At that time I had no idea of the emotional impact that decision was gonna have on me, but it didn’t last too long. The December, I passed by several beauty shops late at night… there parking lots were full. I questioned why, then it hit me, the ladies probably had been sitting in those shops for upwards of a shift at a job. By this time I had found a reliable barber and was grateful that I only had to sit in the chair for upwards of 20minutes at a time and only paid $20 including an eyebrow arch. On top of that my scalp was healed completely, after some many years of chemical burns and bad bad bad dandruff. So more power to the B!G CHOP!!! :D