Activate your bob– screams advertisements and influencers alike. Image after image of women of all ages and their silky, shiny, chic bobs. Chin length, shoulder length, and even a slick bob- sculpted into something of a sassy helmut with an abundance of product and care. Some shaggy bobs, but not too messy. Just the kind of messy that has an air of performative. Perfectly tousled so as to give the impression of fresh sex and a ‘je m’en fiche’ vibe. They could take you or leave you, but the bob is here to stay.
And I want to be crystal clear: I fucking love it. I love the care, I love the attitude, I love the entire vibe.
Well, with one exception. One teeny tiny, itsy bitsy issue. One rather insignificant, miniscule concern.
Approximately 30-35% of women in the world have stick-straight hair, the hair most malleable and bob conducive. I’ll be generous and add on 5-7% for those women who have hair that’s not quite stick straight but can be beaten into submission with the right products and tools. While the same percentage (30ish%) has tight curls- it’s cited that nearly 60% of women have something that would be described as curly hair of some kind, which includes wavy, coily, and curly alike. This category I will affectionately call: less bob friendly.
Are there curly haired queens who can pull off a short hairstyle? You bet your sweet ass there are- and I’ve seen them. Am I one of those gals? Nope. Have I had short hairstyles throughout my forty-five years on earth? Yes. Have they been my favorite hair choices? Not particularly.
Is this all a whiny rant about how I wasn’t blessed with the kind of hair that would allow me to post a bob activation reel? Nope. In fact, in highly personal news: I had pin straight hair until puberty. My bobs were the stuff of dreams. I cried because barrettes wouldn’t stay put. I had my time in the sun. Was it at a time of life when I appreciated it less? Sure. Do I wish I could go back and time swap? Sometimes. Do I really? Nah. I have other, far more dysfunctional, body dysmorphic fueled wishes on that end of the universe.
This is all a long winded way of saying that I find myself continuously disappointed by our society’s inability to celebrate a style or beauty trait without making it the standard. A standard. An unreachable, unattainable, incredibly outlandish standard where many are concerned. And this is not due to want. Oh no. Rather, genetics, ethnicity, resources, and so many factors that are mostly out of our control depending on our age and circumstances.
The intimation is not that you are a hot thang rocking the style that works for you. Rather, it’s a sentiment that anyone who isn’t, is less than. It’s a tiresome narrative and one that I’m desperate to see shift before I leave this mortal coil.
And while I wish I could just point a finger at the beauty or fashion industries, at PR firms and advertisers and those who directly profit off such “trends”, I’m also keenly aware that it’s all of us.
Sus commented that she is glad to have an opportunity to travel with me because it has afforded her the ability to see my hair in the morning. Why, you ask? Ah well, it’s something hard to describe. Wild feels like a gross understatement. It’s absolutely bonkers. Curly, frizzy, multidirectional. Last week I found an earring in it in the morning that I had been searching for before bed. In. There. Embedded. Invisible to the human eye at first, second and third glance.
I’ve grown comfortable with this reality in the last decade or so and still, my bathroom vanity is filled with products, inexpensive and overpriced, that promise to tame my batshit hair into something more agreeable.
I know I’ve also spoken of this paradigm before, but at a time when women are more in danger than ever, I believe that these things take on a different meaning. They are more critical. Why? Well, because I believe that these types of toxic beauty standards (not styles, but standards) create a social stratification that that helps feed the monster that is patriarchal thinking.
The more controllable we are, the more likely we are to be controlled.
And it’s all well and good to say you can appreciate a thing without craving it, without feeling diminished without it, but you have to really mean it.
You don’t have to love all your bits, but you kind of have to accept them either way. You have to know that there may not be others in your direct line of view who look like you and that’s okay. Social media amplified beauty standards do not dictate your likeability or your success in this world and it sure as fuck shouldn’t determine your happiness.
Do I want to see fabulous activated bobs? I do. But I also want to see medium length beach waves, tight wild curls, bangs, ponytails, and yes- well moisturized bald scalps. And it’s not just about hair. It really is not. It’s the whole thing. It’s whatever we’ve determined to be the standard. Body type and size is also another disastrous area in which we’ve set truly insane standards.
They will sell you a product so you can try and conform- to reach that standard. And I have invested, baby. Creams, gels, injections, and all the things to help mold you into something that makes you infinitely more worthy. Except it doesn’t. Make you more worthy- and that end-of-day revelation is absolutely crushing. You may be straighter and slicker and skinnier, but happier? Are you?
Perimenopause has rendered me sweaty when others are seemingly comfortable, my hair is mostly a creature, my thighs have ripples, and my lips are most assuredly far from sex pot puffy. But I have curious mind, and I love to laugh, and my exploration of myself and this world is endless. And that feels like the sexiest form of activation- no goop needed.
X
L.
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