Context to the story:
The girl cut her hair once so that she could have bangs. The mother disapproved and decided to cut off 15" of her hair as punishment. The girl later again decided to change her hair style and the above was the result; she shaved her daughters head.
Having a few personal experiences with this kind of invasive behaviour it really hurts to see someone go through these kinds of things, where the parent tries to live vicariously through their childs life, to attempt to shape them and make their decisions for them depending on what THEY would do and give their child NO independence or self expression.
Thankfully, this mother thought her actions were 100% justifiable and posted it to Facebook as a bit of a “haha, teach my kid a lesson” and has been hit with brutal recrimination from her community and has had visits from Child Protective Services.
For so many young (and older) girls their hair is their self expression, and in several months I hope this girl will have hers back.
Children are not their parent’s possessions.
Children are NOT their parents’ possessions.
CHILDREN ARE NOT THEIR PARENTS’ POSSESSIONS!!!
I’ve yanked like 5 different people from under the thumb of shitty parents because ^^^^ so many fucking adults think they get to own another human being just because they birthed it. Nah bitch what if they decide they’ve had enough, what nursing home are you gonna be in
I’m going to add my own story to this.
The first decision I remember making for myself, I was somewhere between 5 and 6 years old and my parents asked me if I wanted to keep my hair long or short. I decided on long, and have not changed my mind.
As I’ve grown older, it’s been made clearer that I basically look like my mother, only 30 years younger with lighter skin and longer hair (she keeps hers short in the “if-it’s-curling-over-my-ears-it’s-too-long” way). I have been mistaken for her by her friends as I’ve walked down the street since I was about 10 years old. I lose this woman in a store, I ask nearby reps if they’ve seen a short haired, older, more Spanish version of me. 90% of the time they know instantly who I’m talking about. Her parents have seen pictures of me where I’ve done my hair up to look shorter for a photoshoot and have thought it was her.
Now, please don’t mistake me. Her own mistakes aside, including what I’m about to describe, if I end up being half the woman my mother is I’ll count myself extremely lucky. But, my long hair kind of got wrapped up in my personal identity as a dividing marker between me and my mother.
Self expression. Self determination. Individuality and Identity. My hair means a lot to me.
I was in high school on a US Military base in Tokyo, Japan. Sophomore year. Journalism class. We had this thing that was basically Regionals (we called them “Far East Conferences”) where for a given thing (Journalism, Drama, and insert-sports-team-here are the ones I remember), the teams from all the bases from Japan, Okinawa, Korea, and Guam would get together and compete and/or learn more about the given subject for a week, location will vary depending on the event and the year. For our class, the teacher asked who was interested, and out of that pool made their decision on who got to go.
A week in Okinawa to brainstorm and learn more about writing and other forms of journalism with individuals of like interests? A chance to see more of the world? YES PLEASE.
I got picked. Parents signed the form saying I could go, but aside told me it was only if my grades were solid A’s and B’s a month before I left.
Had a C. Might have been two. They tried to pull me from the team, but tickets were bought and paid for. They were angry, and told me if I didn’t get my grades up by a given time ( I think it was either the next month or the next report card (we got them like, twice in a quarter)), they’d either repeat an earlier punishment, or they’d cut my hair, which reached 2/3-¾ of the way down my back, a solid 10 inches and donate it to Locks of Love.
Hair grows back. For the second time in my life I chose the second option.
My teacher was visibly shocked when I came back into the classroom after that furious “conversation” with my parents in the hallway and I was in tears. I don’t remember if she asked why–if she had, she’d have been waved off.
Locks of Love is a noble cause. I hope whoever wound up with my hair that time, and the one other time it happened, enjoys it, has recovered from whatever ailed them, and is very, very happy–and I do not say that out of spite.
But charity isn’t charity if it’s forced.
Mom took me to the local salon, and told them what was happening–that I was donating my hair to charity. I can’t remember if it was this time or the other time that I brought a friend along to hold my hand while it happened. The hairdresser came over with the scissors, and I was choking back sobs. They pulled back, and told my Mom if I didn’t want my hair cut, they wouldn’t do it. Mom waved them back, came to me, and furiously (as I was embarrassing her in public by making a scene) reminded me of the other threat that waited if I didn’t go through with it.
I had to give the “OK”.
Something you should know about high schools on Military bases: we’re small. My graduating class was something like 67. There were 333 kids in my school that year, 9th-12th grade. Quite often by the time the oldest dependent (child) is reaching that age their parents are considering retirement in the next 5-10 years, if not sooner. EVERYONE knows each other on sight, if not personally.
My hair was suddenly just below my shoulders. Nowhere near as bad as the OP, but this is my story. EVERYONE, from my classmates to teachers to my friends and church leaders wanted to know– “Why the sudden change?”.
And I couldn’t tell them why, because if I did, it’d have been “My parents are mean to me”, and I’d have been the ungrateful brat that was trying to get back at her parents, trying to get herself out of a mess she’d gotten herself into–and I’d only have gotten myself into more trouble.
I wound up constantly bursting into tears at the question, because I wasn’t allowed to ask for help.
I wasn’t just being shamed and cowed into obedience. I was being silenced.
I guess it supposedly being “cute” was supposed to help matters. It didn’t.
I lived under the threat of this kind of hair cut or the other option from the age of 12 until I started college to keep me in line. If you ask my parents, they’ll tell you they were at wits’ end trying to do so.
Apparently I was some sort of wild child. (Want to know what I actually did as a teenager? Ask me sometime.)
It grew back. Mostly. Still can’t get it quite as long as it used to be, and I’ve been trying for 6 years now, since my last major cut (that one was voluntary, and no more than 4 inches).
Because that’s what it does. Hair grows back.
Small favors.
I was, in a sense, stripped of part of my identity, my individuality, and self-expression. As to self determination–hey, I made the choice. I made the deal. And I failed to hold up my end. Choices have consequences. I accept this as a truth of our reality.
Of course, the other option was to have my bedroom, my personal sanctuary, emptied of everything except a couple of blankets, a pillow, and two garbage bags of clothes. No bed, no dresser, no desk, no books–not a pen, notebook, or bobby pin. Me, the floor, that list, and the water heater under the window. Only this time it’d all be taken to the dump or the thrift shop, and I’d have to buy it all back myself.
Sometimes we have no good choices. Sometimes, the people giving those choices to us are acting way beyond the pale.
Someone please spread my story. I don’t want it happening again to anyone.