Hair, self image, vanity and insecurity

We fragile humans allow our hair to define us. Any perceived lack of hair can carve deep into our confidence, our whole psyché. Hair is almost emblematic of life itself. An abundance of it, a rich lusty body of hair, suggests that life is flourishing, youthful energy and potential is coursing through our veins. Whereas a thinning or receding hairline suggests ageing and weakness, the ebbing of life-force. Any emerging bald patch can invite laddish mockery, the poking of an insecurity. For women too, thinning hair can be a terrifying prospect that strips away a proud and prized feminity. Many have described of losing hair through cancer treatment as one of the hardest parts of the disease, perhaps because it represents such a loss of self, a loss of identity. Hair is disproportionately representative. Hair and anxiety Alongside gender and skin colour, hairstyle, hair colour and hair length are the first things people will use to describe a person. And so it comes with huge anxiety. When is the right time to make a change? Should I colour it? Cut it short?

It’s a canvas for striking reinvention of the self. Will it make me look more attractive? Younger or older? What will mum and dad think? There are limitless options, with no clear right or wrong. And yet: “have you seen what she’s done with her hair? I know! What was she thinking!?” Hair is nuclear gossip and self image kryptonite. Hair can be compared teeth, and how we present to the world, perhaps broadly unthinkingly until there is an issue, a thinning, a greying, traumatic impact on a tooth, a fragment goes flying, is lost, and with it a haunting sense of self, almost soul. The tongue will probe and probe at this ghastly difference, this brutal change in our mouthscape, never quite recovering. Hair and time

Generational change is significant with hair, as is today’s liberation of probably excessive choice in all things, generating more anxiety. Consider the stigma of baldness in earlier generations when there was less choice, how male wig-wearers were the subject of such comedy ridicule in the 1970s and 80s. An actor named Telly Savalas famously played a detective in the 1970s’ television series Kojak, and virtually made a personal brand from being openly bald. I exaggerate, but not much. Consider modern developments in hair transplant technology which have seen an increase in British men travelling to places like Turkey where procedures are more affordable. According to my social feeds, the market for head shavers is thriving. In small and sparsely populated sleepy high streets across the UK, the shops you are always guaranteed to see are hairdressers. Probably more than one or two. Hair is a reliable business because we fragile humans let hair define us. Hair offers a a manageable difference, the precious idea of improvement. It shouldn’t be ignored that hairdressers also offer some level of talking therapy. They are important pillars of local communities. I quietly wonder how much drama there is between rival hairdressing factions, how much local tension is produced when a loyal customer of one salon dares to venture over the road. Hair and me As a broadly self prescribed shaven baldy, I understand how the supposedly premature thinning of a crown or recession can affect men. It’s just looks daft, doesn’t it? That little island. Or is it ok really? Do I shave it because I am insecure about it, or because I am secure? Hello there confusion, my old friend. My hair has always felt somewhat thin and I often enviously regard those with a richer and more generous crop. Present in our mind is loss, how it used to be better. How it won’t ever be as thick again. However, there is a sense of liberation in shaving it. You’re no longer obliged to hairdressers and that whole rigmarole. To daily combing or styling. You have a different and private sort of rigmarole that’s slightly less costly, and much simpler. No great burden or too much to think about. And yet after a time it can feel cheerless, exposed and boring, especially when the pate chills and pales with a colder season. Also, potentially and misleadingly threatening. We all tire of our reflection, our image on video calls. Ah, there’s your head again, the blankly jutting headland atop the blankly jutting face. Some peppering sprigs could liven the place up a bit, offer some texture? Hair offers a shot at reinvention and refresh. Hair and Vanity Hair and teeth connect with ideas of vanity, arrogance, hubris, a belief that one is better than others. This is necessary for powerful people. I would suggest the US President Donald Trump has a sense of self that is built on his invincibility, the notion that he has never made a mistake, that he could never fail or do any wrong. Vanity is a disguised or oversimplified insecurity. Perhaps the roots of vanity are not-enoughness, a need to be perceived as infallible, invulnerable, immortal even. Not having going grey, not losing hair, not developing wrinkles. Still being physically desirable. In younger people, vanity might connect with a need for perfection, or near perfection, or at least superiority to most. This what the hair and beauty, fashion and style, technology and even health industries trade on. Be better. Be better. Be better. Hair, nails, tan, muscles, lips, nose, bodyweight, facelift: defy defy defy. We are always finding more ways of pushing back against nature, and it doesn’t come risk free. Newish kids on the block are weight loss jabs and drugs, which come with potential side effects such as reduced bone density. This all sails on the winds of technology, social media, phone addiction, human anxiety, commerce: how we are constantly sold to when scrolling. There are endless ways we might change our appearance, for better or worse. And it’s usually a speculative punt, with no guarantees.