I got dreads the first year I came to Moscow as a social experiment. It’s not that I really like or am opposed to them, at the time I was impartial. I just wanted to see if people would treat me differently. And I’m not one to brag, but my assumptions were pretty darn accurate — I was offered a joint four hours after finishing them.
I wanted to know if a different hairstyle would change how men treated me. My assumptions here were pretty spot on too, although one never really knows what an experiment is like until lived. I had lost some desirability that goes along with the idea of “feminine,” and it certainly put me into the “friend zone” for most types.
I remember walking down Main Street. It was a hot summer day, and the weight hanging from my scalp was growing heavier. As I was about to cross the street, someone yelled out of a car window. I didn’t hear exactly what they said, but there was something in their tone that sounded antagonizing. I looked around to see if anything strange was going on, and then realized it was me. I was causing so much disturbance they felt compelled to yell at a complete stranger.
It hit me, that remark — whatever it was. I remember a bleak feeling blanketing me as I dragged my feet the rest of the way home. I also remember the heartache that trailed around with me that summer, the loneliness and wanting to be with someone that I was trying with all my might to fight against.
But it was almost as if trying to be a staunch individual on the outside became more of a facade for the lack of a deep connection that lay buried underneath. After a while, I must have thought it was the hair: The knotted threads itching my neck were soaking into this identity.
When the strands first intertwined, the whole thing was an experiment. Yet as the days wore on, the tangled tresses began to slowly intertwine with my sense of identity. And in doing so, they began to wrap themselves around the fragile parts of my heart. This was why when a complete stranger yelled something unintelligible at me, it hurt.
But that shouldn’t hurt. It was an experiment. “How interesting,” I should have thought, and wondered about their religious and political beliefs and whether they had an abusive childhood. How incredible, my appearance would cause someone to waste their energy on me. How intriguing, what were they trying to say, and why?
No, instead I dragged my feet home and cut my hair. I am a strong person. I am stubborn and defiant. But, I am human — a human who knows the experiments we conduct in our lives are the substance of our shared reality. The intention here is not to preach conformity, nor is it to absolve my sins of faltered independence. I simply want to remind you that you become the identity you create for yourself, for better or worse. It is a conscious choice to be free.
Bethany Lowe can be reached at [email protected]