Transcribe
Translate
Ain't I A Woman? newspapers, June 1970-July 1971
1971-01-29 "Ain't I a Woman?" Page 2
More information
digital collection
archival collection guide
transcription tips
NOTES ON CUTTING MY HAIR Until a month ago, my hair grew down to my waist. I wore it tied up or in a braid, and only let it down when I wanted to hide behind it or run my fingers through it. Long hair is really sensual to touch, to took at, to smell when it's clean, to wriggle naked shoulders under. Now, I though, what is oppressive about sensual enjoyment of one's hair? I stopped using it for ornament, I stopped swinging it lasciviously in mixed company. But when I started to think about chopping it off, my stomach contracted in terror. So I kept it long and in the back of my mind wondered what was going on, what was in this fear of losing part of myself. Then, when Cindy came downstairs one night and said "Cut my hair!", I stopped thinking and cut mine off too. One of the braid strands went, and it was just very strange. The second came off, and all of a sudden I wanted to keep the last--a third of one's hair is better than none. This first haircut came below my ears; I thought it was radical. A lot of the sensuality was gone, but I could still flick my hair across my face. I could put my hat on backwards and look like Rita Tushingham. It was still perfectly clear that I was not only a female, but an attractive female at that. Which is a nice thing to be, especially when you're still insecure about roles and models. At the Grinnell conference I walked into a room on Sunday morning, and Ann's hair was really short! Linda from Iowa City was trimming it up, and all the other Iowa City women, all with Iowa City haircuts, were kibbitzing and commenting and taking turns with the scissors. So when Ann got out of the chair, I sat down-because I sort of knew that medium length hair was a transition point. Now my hair does not cover my ears, it does not swing in my face, it doesn't swing at all. It just sits on my head, and all I can do with it is push it out of my face or run my fingers through it when I'm frazzled. Considering that at most only three inches were cut off, the changes I went through were surprisingly extreme. The first thing I noticed was that in classes I didn't have to bother about how I was coming across. I have talked to one professor outside of class, and met him at various social functions, and had felt that although I really didn't like him, and didn't like the way he taught, still there was a bond between us that had to be acknowledged. In class I had to forget that I didn't like him outside of class. I should not attack him in class, because I knew him when he wasn't being a teacher. Anyway, I went to class on Monday with short hair, and just sat and took notes and didn't look and didn't catch his eye and didn't feel involved at all (which meant I didn't feel threatened, which meant I didn't spend any energy attacking him). What I did was take notes and try to understand the subject matter. This non-involvement occurs in a lot of different situations. When I walk through the commons, I feel much less on display. I'm freer to look for people I know, walking through is now more my business than the business of people who are looking at me. I'm doing it, and if people watch me, I don't care. I'm not touched by it. Whatever I do, I'm starting to look at from my own perspective and not as other people see me. I see the external world; I feel what I want from it; I feel my relationship with different parts of it. Much less now do I see myself as others see me, and operate either in agreement with that image or defensively against it. I think that has something to do with no longer looking like an attractive female. It's a contradiction to look distinctively feminine and to act naturally. I was acting tough so that men wouldn't come on to me, while their response to my appearance was to come on. I was concerned with looking nice, at the same time I was actively trying not to act nice. I enjoyed relating to my hair, but refused to let men relate to i. (The rhetoric to that is: I was acting like a sexual object, and kicking people when they reacted to me as that.) So now when I look in the mirror I see a person who really doesn't look like a girl. She doesn't look like a boy. Really, what she looks like hasn't been labelled yet. She looks like ME. This refusal to act an established role has caused two rather heavy realizations to hit me in the face. First, the question of how seriously do I actually take myself. How much is my taking aikido based on learning to defend myself in actual, real, dangerous situations, and how much is it tied into seeking myself (from the outside) as a tough female taking aikido? There is a real difference between showing people the armlocks I have learned, and knowing those armlocks well enough to defend myself. All this talk about stomping people--when it comes down to it, will I actually be able to do it? I think it's time to stop playing around with being different images, and to start deciding what we want to do, and learning the skills we need to be able to do it. The other bomb is related to my habit of making nasty comments to men. A friend of mine pointed out that verbally kicking them in the balls doesn't do a whole lot of good. It doesn't make me feel better. It doesn't make them think about anything except what a bitch I am. She said: figure out if you want to relate to people, and if you do, how you want to do it. Being a bitch is not relating to people. It's merely putting up walls which wouldn't be necessary if I would just stay away from them. Since I now feel much more in control of both whether or not I relate to men, and on what terms, I can see that it is my choice a lot of the time to relate to them or not. I don't have to listen to them. I can choose to listen to them, and choose to interact with them. If they are oppressing me, I can leave, or I can tell them how they are doing it. Instead of listening to them talk for a half hour and then knifing them between the ribs, I can object immediately. Which is a lot better for both of us. It also takes a lot of guts, a lot of confidence. So right at this time I'm choosing for the most part not to talk to them. (I can feel the nasty comments bubbling up inside me, and I know that the interchange will not be productive.) All of this really does have to do with not having hair that I can objectify. Unfortunately, I can feel myself doing the same thing with my body. Admiring my biceps, becoming strong because I dig the image, instead of thinking of strength in terms of ways I can use it. There's a difference. A woman can be physically capable of doing a lot of things, and still have a mind-set that makes it impossible for her to do them. I can see it now: a woman doing pushups in one room while five people struggle to move a chest in another. One's strength is a tool. All of one's physical attributes are tools, and one reason why I cut my hair is that it was a tool for a task I had rejected. Teeth are to chew with, muscles are to lift with, eyelashes are to keep the dust out of your eyes with, mouths are to kiss people with. And once you realize that, you spend a lot less time admiring and cultivating your teeth and your muscles and your eyelashes and your mouth, and a lot more time doing the things you can do with them. the smell of me reminds me of the smell of you you touched me having touched yourself and I feel good to you, to me, now sometimes people tell me I'm down on myself not naming my indulgence not knowing how I love you. Page 2 Vol.1 No. 11 ain't I
Saving...
prev
next
NOTES ON CUTTING MY HAIR Until a month ago, my hair grew down to my waist. I wore it tied up or in a braid, and only let it down when I wanted to hide behind it or run my fingers through it. Long hair is really sensual to touch, to took at, to smell when it's clean, to wriggle naked shoulders under. Now, I though, what is oppressive about sensual enjoyment of one's hair? I stopped using it for ornament, I stopped swinging it lasciviously in mixed company. But when I started to think about chopping it off, my stomach contracted in terror. So I kept it long and in the back of my mind wondered what was going on, what was in this fear of losing part of myself. Then, when Cindy came downstairs one night and said "Cut my hair!", I stopped thinking and cut mine off too. One of the braid strands went, and it was just very strange. The second came off, and all of a sudden I wanted to keep the last--a third of one's hair is better than none. This first haircut came below my ears; I thought it was radical. A lot of the sensuality was gone, but I could still flick my hair across my face. I could put my hat on backwards and look like Rita Tushingham. It was still perfectly clear that I was not only a female, but an attractive female at that. Which is a nice thing to be, especially when you're still insecure about roles and models. At the Grinnell conference I walked into a room on Sunday morning, and Ann's hair was really short! Linda from Iowa City was trimming it up, and all the other Iowa City women, all with Iowa City haircuts, were kibbitzing and commenting and taking turns with the scissors. So when Ann got out of the chair, I sat down-because I sort of knew that medium length hair was a transition point. Now my hair does not cover my ears, it does not swing in my face, it doesn't swing at all. It just sits on my head, and all I can do with it is push it out of my face or run my fingers through it when I'm frazzled. Considering that at most only three inches were cut off, the changes I went through were surprisingly extreme. The first thing I noticed was that in classes I didn't have to bother about how I was coming across. I have talked to one professor outside of class, and met him at various social functions, and had felt that although I really didn't like him, and didn't like the way he taught, still there was a bond between us that had to be acknowledged. In class I had to forget that I didn't like him outside of class. I should not attack him in class, because I knew him when he wasn't being a teacher. Anyway, I went to class on Monday with short hair, and just sat and took notes and didn't look and didn't catch his eye and didn't feel involved at all (which meant I didn't feel threatened, which meant I didn't spend any energy attacking him). What I did was take notes and try to understand the subject matter. This non-involvement occurs in a lot of different situations. When I walk through the commons, I feel much less on display. I'm freer to look for people I know, walking through is now more my business than the business of people who are looking at me. I'm doing it, and if people watch me, I don't care. I'm not touched by it. Whatever I do, I'm starting to look at from my own perspective and not as other people see me. I see the external world; I feel what I want from it; I feel my relationship with different parts of it. Much less now do I see myself as others see me, and operate either in agreement with that image or defensively against it. I think that has something to do with no longer looking like an attractive female. It's a contradiction to look distinctively feminine and to act naturally. I was acting tough so that men wouldn't come on to me, while their response to my appearance was to come on. I was concerned with looking nice, at the same time I was actively trying not to act nice. I enjoyed relating to my hair, but refused to let men relate to i. (The rhetoric to that is: I was acting like a sexual object, and kicking people when they reacted to me as that.) So now when I look in the mirror I see a person who really doesn't look like a girl. She doesn't look like a boy. Really, what she looks like hasn't been labelled yet. She looks like ME. This refusal to act an established role has caused two rather heavy realizations to hit me in the face. First, the question of how seriously do I actually take myself. How much is my taking aikido based on learning to defend myself in actual, real, dangerous situations, and how much is it tied into seeking myself (from the outside) as a tough female taking aikido? There is a real difference between showing people the armlocks I have learned, and knowing those armlocks well enough to defend myself. All this talk about stomping people--when it comes down to it, will I actually be able to do it? I think it's time to stop playing around with being different images, and to start deciding what we want to do, and learning the skills we need to be able to do it. The other bomb is related to my habit of making nasty comments to men. A friend of mine pointed out that verbally kicking them in the balls doesn't do a whole lot of good. It doesn't make me feel better. It doesn't make them think about anything except what a bitch I am. She said: figure out if you want to relate to people, and if you do, how you want to do it. Being a bitch is not relating to people. It's merely putting up walls which wouldn't be necessary if I would just stay away from them. Since I now feel much more in control of both whether or not I relate to men, and on what terms, I can see that it is my choice a lot of the time to relate to them or not. I don't have to listen to them. I can choose to listen to them, and choose to interact with them. If they are oppressing me, I can leave, or I can tell them how they are doing it. Instead of listening to them talk for a half hour and then knifing them between the ribs, I can object immediately. Which is a lot better for both of us. It also takes a lot of guts, a lot of confidence. So right at this time I'm choosing for the most part not to talk to them. (I can feel the nasty comments bubbling up inside me, and I know that the interchange will not be productive.) All of this really does have to do with not having hair that I can objectify. Unfortunately, I can feel myself doing the same thing with my body. Admiring my biceps, becoming strong because I dig the image, instead of thinking of strength in terms of ways I can use it. There's a difference. A woman can be physically capable of doing a lot of things, and still have a mind-set that makes it impossible for her to do them. I can see it now: a woman doing pushups in one room while five people struggle to move a chest in another. One's strength is a tool. All of one's physical attributes are tools, and one reason why I cut my hair is that it was a tool for a task I had rejected. Teeth are to chew with, muscles are to lift with, eyelashes are to keep the dust out of your eyes with, mouths are to kiss people with. And once you realize that, you spend a lot less time admiring and cultivating your teeth and your muscles and your eyelashes and your mouth, and a lot more time doing the things you can do with them. the smell of me reminds me of the smell of you you touched me having touched yourself and I feel good to you, to me, now sometimes people tell me I'm down on myself not naming my indulgence not knowing how I love you. Page 2 Vol.1 No. 11 ain't I
Campus Culture
sidebar
