I Don’t Have Any Proof
When I was 12, my mother and sister cut my hair. I had long, straight blonde hair, which my mother made me wear in a braid every day. I was not allowed to wear it down. One day my sister saw me playing with one of my friends and decided that my hair was “too adult” for me.
Their next logical step was to cut it ALL off. They put it in a ponytail and cut above the elastic. The ends of my hair hit just below my ears, essentially giving me a bowl cut. Since they did it themselves, it was also choppy and completely uneven.
I was already a weird child who lacked social skills, but the terrible haircut really hammered it in. I became the weird kid that my entire class tormented for the next year. My sister told me this a few days ago and I didn’t process how strange this was until this morning.
It all hit me like a wave—the absolute insanity of blaming a 12-year-old child for potentially looking too adult and attracting male attention. When my hair grew out, the color deepened and I never got those natural streaks back.
In all my childhood photos my hair is either boy-short or tied in a tight French braid. I don’t have proof that I ever had beautiful hair, but I guess I have to take their jealousy for their word.