I shaved my head. Here's what it taught me. (2025)

In September 2022 I shaved my head. I was really nervous about it. That was one of the reasons I knew I had to do it.

It taught me a lot about myself, how I want to show up in the world, and the ways in which I was hiding.

It’s frustrating that a woman having a shaved head is automatically a major talking point. And yet, here I am, talking about it.

But that’s the thing - it highlighted to me something that many of us are aware of and most likely experience as women.

What we look like and the choices we make about our appearance play a big part in how we are perceived, often holding more weight than other forms of self-expression.

I was recently asked by a friend if I would do it again. And it had me reflect on the experience almost two and a half years later.

Here are some of my learnings and insights as I look back. Some are profound, some less so, all valuable.

Long-considered impulsivity, it’s a thing

I’d been considering the shave for ages, like, almost 2 weeks. This is, in fact, FOR.E.VER when it comes to me making a decision like this. I’ve made myself wrong for being ‘too impulsive’ in the past, but I now realise that these kinds of decisions are in my orbit for months or even years. When I actually consider it out loud, I know it’s time to take action.

I have zero tolerance when it comes to indulging in indecision. I like that about myself.

—

“Mums don’t have shaved heads.” (aka ‘Shit… now this is a teachable moment…’)

I asked my sons what they thought about me shaving my head. My eldest, aged 13 at the time, replied, “Do it. It’ll be awesome.” Followed by a #slayqueen. Ok, yep, he’s on board. My youngest, who was 10, responded with hesitation, “Ummmm… I’m not sure. I mean, mum’s don’t really have shaved heads.” Crap.

What followed was an important conversation about what we expect people to look and act like, and where we might be holding beautiful parts of ourselves back in order to fit in with what’s expected.

Alright, mumma. Time to put these words into action. But I was really nervous, because the truth was…

—

I was worried my partner wouldn’t find me attractive anymore

He encouraged me to do it. He was supportive and totally onboard. I knew that he loved me for more than my long hair. But still, what if I didn’t look pretty anymore?

I felt kinda stupid and super vulnerable confessing this to him. Because I should be a strong, feminist woman who does not ask the man she’s in a relationship with these kind of questions, right!

Would I have done it if he’d been hesitant? I’d love to say, ‘Yes! Of course! Who cares what the men think! Fire up the clippers and let’s do this!’ But I most likely would have reconsidered, or at least delayed it. Part of me wants to be angry at myself for this, but another part tells me that it’s ok.

Hyper-independence has been my MO for most of my life. But it’s not how I want to live anymore, healthy inter-dependence is, especially when it comes to intimate relationships.

If the roles were reversed and he wanted to, I don’t know, tattoo his face for example! I’d want to feel like my opinion was important. I wouldn’t be trying to control him. I’d be doing it out of love and care for him, and with curiosity about why he wanted to do it. So if he was unsure about what I was proposing, I’d want to be open enough to at least hear it and consider his position.

—

I thought I’d care about the hair, I didn’t

I asked my sons if they wanted to help me do it. With two pony tails (each containing the whisperings of $1000’s of $ invested and many hours in the hairdressers chair) I cut them off with the not-so-sharp kitchen scissors. I loved that it didn’t matter. I couldn’t get this wrong. Then they each took turns with the clippers.

I looked at the hair lying on the floor of my bedroom. Before the chop, I’d thought of taking it to the beach and making some energetic offering by tossing the hair into the bay in an overdramatic, wonderfully witchy way. This would be a beautifully poignant, symbolic gesture. Erm… not so much. That didn’t happen. It was just dead hair on a carpet. I scooped it up into a plastic bag and put it in the bin in the driveway. Instant non-attachment. Quite possibly the most spiritual response.

—

I loved it instantly… then wasn’t so sure

I felt beautiful and powerful and so free. Then I had a low level (ok probably major) panic attack. ‘What the f*ck have I done?!?!’ I loved how I looked and felt when I had some make up on (the brow game became even more important) and was dressed in clothes that made me feel confident.

Trackies and a hoodie at home on the couch still has a hint of cute when you have a full head of long messy hair to toss around. Not so cute post-shave.

My eldest told me in his natural David-from-Schitts-Creek style, “Mum, you look more like a teenage boy than I do right now.” Fair.

It took me a while to get used to my reflection in the morning. I didn’t feel as naturally lovely. And this was a good thing. Ever since I was a teenager…

—

I’d always been considered to be typically attractive.

Tall’ish, athletic, pretty face, long dark hair. Here I was, on the cusp of 40, where long hair offers a gentle filter for the face. ‘Messy and undone’ was my vibe. So a face that was getting a little more ‘messy’ with time was camouflaged by long, messy hair.

Shaving your head removes these kind of filters and exposes you in a very literal way. I’d never thought of my hair being a kind of security blanket, but it had been, and one of those very typical markers of feminine attractiveness.

The attention changed. I didn’t receive nearly as much attention from males. And not just in a sleezy way (although that also stopped entirely which was a goddam delight!) but men just stopped noticing me. I was invisible. It wasn’t just men. People in general were less friendly, because I think I looked less friendly.

Here’s a story about that. I was at my local supermarket after the gym one day. A little girl–who would have been around 4–was shopping with her mum. I looked and smiled. Kids always love me. Except on this occasion I was met with an expression that said something different.

I smiled at the mum, who smiled back, and said excuse me as I reached for the dog food she was standing in front of.

“Watch out sweetheart and let the lady in.” she said to her daughter.

“That’s not a lady.” was the reply.

I smiled at the mum. Never have I seen someone want the floor to open up and swallow them whole more than in that moment. I got the dog food, paid and left. Then cried in my car for a good 10 minutes.

We should be liked and loved for who we are, not what we look like. But we live in a society where first impressions do have an impact. Often that’s based on how we look.

Side note: I’m sure that mum had a wonderful conversation with her amazingly honest and confident daughter and milked that teachable moment for all it was worth. I’m sure, as a grown woman many years from now, she will think back to that brave, beautiful woman she saw when she was little and feel empowered to shave her head too. We’re all in this together, ladies. I’m doing this for all of us. You’re welcome.

—

I shaved my head every week for a few months, then stopped.

I decided to let it grow a little. I had no grand plan for what this hair (or lack thereof) journey was going to be about. If there was one big a-ha moment in all of this, it was now.

I was comfortable being ‘Vari with the long hair’ and I also, for the most part, liked the attention of being ‘Vari - the woman who just shaves off all of that lovely long hair’. Even in the moments of discomfort in the dog food aisle, I was saying something with my actions. I was decisive and sure and bold and daring.

I’d always been this woman. I left home in Scotland for New York as a 17 year old. I moved to Australia with nothing but a backpack at 23. I started my own business. I had children then decided I wanted to get divorced. Being a single mother excited me more than terrified me.

What did terrify me was being ‘Vari - the woman who doesn’t know what the hell she’s doing’. As my hair grew–in its awkward, fuzzy, very un-chic way–I would get asked, “Are you growing it out?” I didn’t know, so I’d answer with a bumble’y, unclear response of “Ummm… I don’t really know. I’ll just wait and see. I’m not sure.”

—

Being in a visible No Mans Land was excruciatingly uncomfortable.

The ugly duckling stage of a newly grown out shaved head was a very visible sign to everyone that I was in a transitional phase. This was true not just for my appearance but for other areas of my life too. Through other major life transitions, I’d aways looked like I had it all together and in control, but this was different. It felt like I’d taken off my armour and was exposed and vulnerable to the world.

I needed this. I needed to feel exposed. I needed to learn to be uncomfortable in the messy middle between what has been and what’s to come. And I learned that it was safe to let others see me change in real time.

—

Some people were angry and confused, some applauded it.

Most of the compliments from strangers were women in their 70s and 80s. I had a sneaky feeling that all of these amazing older woman would have been ones to shave their heads back in the day. These fleeting exchanges with wise, older women felt lovely and comforting.

The most popular comment was in reference to Sinead O’Conner (yes, thank you, I’ll take that) or subtly questioning on if I was having a ‘Britney Spears moment’ (less of a compliment and more a concern about my mental state I always felt).

My gym instructor, on seeing me do modified burpees (I had a quad injury from volleyball), asked me at the end of class if I was ok, and then was relieved to find out that I wasn’t, ummm sick.

So, back to the question my friend asked me: Will I do it again?

I absolutely would. Right now I like where my hair is at. My short French bob feels right for the season of life I’m in at the moment.

Coco Chanel was right, “A woman who cuts her hair is about to change her life.”

If you’ve secretly always wanted to do it, then I say go right ahead. You will learn a lot about yourself through the process. And, as I’ve told dozens of women over the last few years: You most likely do not have a weird shaped head.

Love,
Vari x