The Feminine Urge to Cut Our Hair

I know I’m about to change my life because I keep fantasizing about cutting my hair.

Not a trim. Not a reshape. I’m talking chop it off. A bob. A real one. My hair’s been trailing halfway down my back for years now, growing with me through seasons of grief, rebirth, motherhood, separation and becoming. But recently, I’ve felt something stirring deep in my body, a message that says: It’s time.

And this time, I want it to mean something.

I’ve always been someone who lives outside the lines. My life, my work, the way I parent, the way I love—it doesn’t fit into conventional boxes. I’m a somatic practitioner. I’m a sexological bodyworker (in training). A phrase that, for most people, doesn’t even register. It’s the kind of work that lives in the shadows of social acceptance but for me, it’s where the medicine is. The sacred, the wild, the truth. I’ve spent years choosing the winding path over the straight one. Choosing embodiment over performance. Choosing depth over approval.

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“Hair is everything.” —Fleabag

I know, I know, cutting my hair into a bob shouldn’t feel radical. But it does.

Because in this moment, it isn’t just about hair. It’s about voice. About visibility. About crossing into a new season of my life where I no longer need to be palatable, pleasing or passive. And why shouldn’t we make rituals out of big statements? Why shouldn’t we treat the scissors like magical tools and the cut like a spell?

I know the fashion language. My background is in it. I know how our emotional weather shows up in what we wear, how we style ourselves, how we move through the world. I’ve even taught it—forecasting trends based on mood shifts, global tensions, collective desire. But this isn’t a trend for me. This is a threshold.

My Co–Star app told me in December, “Cut your hair. It’ll grow back.” It felt like a birthday gift from the universe. An echo of permission I didn’t know I needed.

When your astrology app hits you with divine timing…

And now I’m seeing bobs everywhere. I’m haunted by them. Tantalized. Teased. It’s like the future version of me is waving at me from across the veil, already living the life that haircut stands for.

When I told my daughters, “Mommy’s going to cut her hair,” they say, “No, don’t. You won’t be pretty anymore.” My heart sank. We’ve had this conversation many times what beauty really is, where it lives, what it isn’t. And still, I know this moment matters.

Maybe that’s why I need to do it. To show them that women don’t owe anyone beauty. That change is allowed. That becoming new versions of ourselves doesn’t mean we’re lost—it means we’re listening.

I’ve realized I’m not afraid of the haircut itself. I’m afraid of what it means. That I really am different now. That the version of me I’ve been outgrowing is finally ready to be laid to rest.

So I might make it into a ritual. A small ceremony. Maybe I’ll bury a lock of my hair, say a prayer and let the earth hold the woman I used to be.

Because this isn’t a crisis. It’s a rebirth.

And I want to honor it as such. So yeah, hair is everything.

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