My Hair Journey to Self-Acceptance

They say a woman’s hair is her crowning glory—though sometimes it felt more like my clowning glory. Looking back, my hair has mirrored nearly every emotional shift I’ve ever gone through. It was never just hair. It was identity, rebellion, change, and sometimes even a silent cry for help.

Back in school, I kept my hair short most of the time. Every time I came back from a haircut, my teachers would ask, “Heartbroken ka ba?” I wasn’t, but I guess a drastic haircut tends to give that vibe. I liked my hair short—it felt light. My mom said long hair made you look older, more mature. Whenever I tried to grow my hair out, it always felt off. I’d see other girls with their long, flowing hair and think, they look beautiful. Then I’d look at myself and think… Does this make my face look fat? Maybe it was just in my head, but it stuck with me.

I tried to grow it out a few times, but boredom always won. And weirdly, every time I cut my hair, the guy I liked would disappear or start pulling away. Coincidence? Maybe. Or maybe my subconscious already sensed the ending before I did, and my hair was my way of cutting ties.

They say when a woman cuts her hair, she’s about to change her life. I believe that. The first time I ever cut my bangs was when I was around three or four years old. I’ve been cutting them myself ever since. It’s become a little ritual—a way to reset or feel in control again.

In 2023, something in me shifted. I cut my hair short again, brought the bangs back, and bleached it into a bright champagne blonde. It was bold. It felt like a rebirth. But deep down, I wasn’t okay. I was chasing brightness on the outside because I couldn’t feel it on the inside.

I went through a full-blown identity crisis that year—trying to figure out who I was by constantly changing how I looked. I bought color-depositing conditioners and dyed my hair a different shade every month. Pink, violet, green, blue, orange, brown (that turned back to orange). It was fun… until it wasn’t. At one point, I looked at myself in the mirror and thought, Wow. I’m literally falling apart. My hair was damaged, dry, breaking. And maybe I was too.

By the end of the year, I dyed it jet black. Strangely, it felt like the most honest version of me. The hair was brittle, sure, but it felt right—like I was finally showing up as who I truly was. Not trying to hide anymore.

Around that time, I lost someone. And it hurt. But strangely, the grief didn’t last as long as I thought it would. I thought I’d be stuck in it for years, but I found peace within a few months. And that’s when I realized—I had grown stronger. I had changed.

Now, whenever someone compliments my old blonde hair, I smile. But internally, I remember the version of myself who felt the need to dye it that way. Who wasn’t okay but didn’t know how to say it. It reminds me that sometimes, the most beautiful phases on the outside can come from the messiest parts of us.

Today, my hair is still healing—some of the tips are dry, but the roots are strong. Just like me. I’m letting it grow out again, but this time it’s not out of boredom, or heartbreak, or a desperate need to escape. I’m just letting it be.

And I’m learning to let myself be, too. A sign of growth.