I cut my hair yesterday and now… I do not recognise myself.

It is not just the shorter length or the unfamiliar silhouette. It is the way my reflection stares back like an echo I did not ask to hear. Like a version of me I buried and promised I would not return to.

The last time my hair was this short, I was presenting more masculine. That version of me carried sharp edges and softness tucked away where no one could reach. They were a walking shield.

Then I grew my hair out. I started embracing softness, stretch marks and myself. I stopped performing the kind of hardness I thought I needed. I began to bloom. I liked who I was becoming.

What makes this cut even harder is that my natural hair has always been part of my quiet resistance. Every hairdresser I went to had something to say—”It’s too thick”, “Too coarse”, “Why don’t you relax it?”… I never did. Keeping my hair natural, bountiful and free was a way of saying I will not bend for your comfort. It was mine. So now, seeing it gone… it feels like a betrayal. Like everything I held onto so tightly was taken anyway. And I let it go.

Having to cut my hair again now feels like undoing something sacred. Like I am peeling back progress. Like I am stepping backwards into an old skin I worked hard to shed.

And suddenly, I feel a little less like a woman.

Which is wild. Because what on earth does hair have to do with my womanhood? With my fullness, my fatness, me?

But dysphoria is sneaky like that. It whispers shame where there should be none. It asks questions I do not always have the words to answer.

All I know is: I look different.

I feel unsure.

And I am trying to hold space for the fact that even healing can feel like grief sometimes.