Hoopininity

written by Isabella Castello

photographed by Cella Labarge

The day I shaved my head the first thing I noticed were my silver hoops. They hung from my lobes, pulling at the old, loose piercings, stretching them open. I didn’t notice my two ponytails of hair lying limp on the table in my backyard, or my chia head, or the scratchiness the micro hairs left on my back. Those came second, runner-ups to my silver, dangling hoops that were too heavy for my sleazy earlobes. 

I shaved my head the summer after my freshman year of college, May 21, 2023. I ran a half-marathon with my mom that morning and when I got home—half drunk on runner’s high, half sick of imagining what I’d look like with a bald head—I fished out my father’s clippers and some kitchen scissors. 

My parents rarely push back on the things I do to express myself—what I wear, my piercings, where I go at night, who I call a friend. They may not approve but they understand that it is my clothes, my piercings, and my friends, so they have no jurisdiction there. But when I wanted to shave my head, they “advised” me against it. I fought back pushing their own lack of hair against them—my dad is skin bald and my mom’s had a pixie cut since before I was born. 

“I’ll only have a little less hair than mom.” I shoved this fact at my father after he refused to tell me where his clipper set was. 

“That’s different, you know that’s different. A pixie is still a woman’s style.”

There it was. They were scared of me losing my last ounce of femininity. They worried I’d regret it once I looked in the mirror and saw it was all gone. Maybe they were scared my head was weirdly shaped and it was all their fault. They were dramatic because when I finally found my dad’s set hidden in the back corner of his bathroom and did the thing, I felt more beautiful than I ever had. 

I finally felt like a woman. Before, I used my hair as a shield, hiding behind the greasy curtain whenever I felt someone’s gaze. I never felt beautiful with long hair and definitely not like a woman. I looked in the mirror and saw an insecure child, someone who was hoping to grow into themselves even years after finishing puberty. I equated this growth with the growth of my hair, and as the dead ends conquered over half that length, I felt, and looked, out of control of my body. 

When I shaved it, I took control. I put lipstick on for the first time and slid hoops into the piercings I got when I was two-years-old. Seeing myself for the first time and noticing the hoops, I saw they looked bigger, more prominent, they captured your attention. They meant something now. Without hair they couldn’t hide behind anything anymore either, we were the same. We both were shinier, prettier, and took up more space. At that moment, they gave me the confidence that I made the right decision. They whispered in my ears telling me that in shaving my head, I had not shaved off the last of my womanhood. 

Putting on my hoops has become a ritual. The final step every morning. No matter how late I am, I’ll scramble around my apartment searching for them when they’re lost. Without them, I feel exposed, nude, like I forgot to put my boobs on. I still question my looks and how others perceive me, maybe that’s my real sign of womanhood, but seeing my hoops dangling from my ears eases these thoughts. 

Now, two years later, I’m flirting with the idea of growing my hair again. I want to see it long when I don’t have anything to hide, when the inches softly frame my face rather than obscure it. I’m confident I won’t revert back to quivering behind strands of thin, dead hair because even on days I feel my ugliest, I’ll at least have to show off my shiny, silver hoops.