I recently got my hair cut. And I mean CUT cut. It was halfway down my back and now it’s just above my shoulders! I knew I’d love it so was pretty confident when the time came for the big chop.
The hairdresser, on the other hand, was a little wary.
It actually seemed like she didn’t quite trust my judgment and was worried that I didn’t understand the decision I was making. As I sat myself down in the chair and inhaled, ready to launch into an explanation of what I wanted, she broke eye contact and instead asked my husband ‘how would she like it cut?’ He, of course, directed the question back to me, and I explained how much I wanted off.
She got everything prepared, picked up her scissors, held my hair in her hands ready to cut, and then paused… again, turning to my husband, ‘are you happy with this length?’
Now he was really confused and again redirected the question back to me. You know, the actual owner of this head of hair. I replied I was happy with it. With another glance at my husband to double check his approval, she began to cut.
Are you outraged yet? The thought that my husband should get the final say on what I should do with my own body is enraging right?
But what if we replaced me with my 5-year-old daughter, and my husband with me. How do you feel now? A little less angry? A little more accepting?
Why is it unacceptable for my husband to have such a major say in my appearance, but it’s fine for me as a parent to dictate how my child’s body should look?
Because we all recognise men and women are equal (hopefully). We recognise sexism, we recognise racism, we recognise homophobia, but we don’t recognise childism.