I have a psychological aversion to haircuts. Scissors are my enemy.
Allow me to explain: from the time I was just a little cherub, I wanted waist-length hair. Perhaps because it was the opposite of my childhood bob—or because I was obsessed with mermaids, I had a perpetual yearning. It also probably had something to do with the fact that I was born completely bald and took several months to sprout a single white-blond hair. No, I don’t remember this, but I saw the pictures, and they’re etched on my brain.
The hairstyle I was attracted to didn’t involve the thick, smooth locks that cascade down your back like a silk blanket. That cheerleader, prom-queen hair was never my dream, even though I was, in fact, both. I was always drawn to the messy, witchy, piece-y, rock-star-who-rolled-in-the-hay look that the Olsens and Frenchwomen have mastered so skillfully.
When my hair was its longest, about midway down my back, I decided to add a degree of difficulty by going platinum blond. Once every six weeks, I’d sit in the salon chair for hours at a time as my scalp burned in the name of beauty. And I absolutely loved the blindingly, shockingly white result.
But after five years of this routine, it began breaking off, just disappearing before my eyes. One night, at a Stevie Nicks concert, I stood so close to the stage that I could count her split ends—except there weren’t any. Looking at her, I realized I missed having a curtain of hair to hide behind. If I had to choose between long hair and platinum hair (and I did), I chose length. I made an appointment the next day to have my hair dyed back to my natural dark blond. As it slowly grew, I added extensions to speed along the process, and then I succumbed and cut it into a bob. I’ve been letting it grow ever since.
My Internet friend the stylist Allison Bornstein has gone viral for her “wrong shoe theory.” For the unfamiliar, it’s her practice of pairing what many people would consider the wrong shoe with an outfit to create contrast and a look that, overall, is more compelling. I take a similar approach with my hair, viewing it a bit like a beat-up and well-loved Hermès Birkin: I take care of it, yes, and value it so much that I have regular nightmares about cutting it.
But I prefer it to look unstudied and a bit undone. It’s what the French call dégagé. (You knew they’d have a word for it.) Paired with clothes and makeup that are more considered, imperfect hair gives me a sense of comfort and ease—two qualities I value in an outfit, especially in New York City, where I’m always on the move and often feeling frazzled.
That cheerleader, prom-queen hair was never my dream, even though I was, in fact, both.
As with many things that seem to be “effortless,” such hair takes a ridiculous amount of work. Undone hair is the equivalent of “no-makeup makeup.” It starts with the pure task of growing it as long as possible, which you would think would be an entirely passive endeavor. Not for me. I’ve experimented with P.R.P. injections (ouch) and hair-growth supplements from Nutrafol and the Nue Co. I doubt they work, but I figure they can’t hurt.
I indulge in a monthly scalp massage at the salon, deep conditioners, bond-repair treatments such as K18, along with oils, silk bonnets, and pillowcases. I scroll through Etsy, looking for a witch to perform some sort of hair-growth spell. And every Sunday night I seal my oiled scalp in Saran wrap for five hours looking like Edie Beale, only more deranged. Does any of it make a shred of difference? In my mind, yes. On my head? I have no idea.
I’ve considered a trim on occasion, mostly at the behest of my mother and the occasional person on the Internet who tells me the straggly ends look like garbage. In the meantime, the London-based publicist Daisy Hoppen, who has the most astonishing head of waist-length hair, is my guide. She tells me her hair hasn’t seen a sharp object in about five years, and now I’m stepping far, far away from the scissors. If you see me, don’t hand me a brush or tell me to pull myself together; I’m embracing the mess everywhere, especially on my head.
Christina Grasso is a New York–based content creator and writer. You can read her Substack, the Pouf, here
