When I was in high school, I cut my hair short. Really, really short. Like two centimeters longer than a buzz cut. All during my freshman year of high school (and actually, into my adult life as well) my hair was something of a conundrum. The girls around me—from the cheerleaders to the artistic hippies—all had hair that spoke of who they were . . . that displayed the beauty of their identities. I didn't know where I fit in or what type of beauty belonged to me. So I gave up on hair and went looking for my face. I think my choice to go ultra short was bewildering to many of my classmates. My haircut was only flattering from certain angles on certain days of the week. In t-shirts, I looked like and effeminate boy. Yet, for me, my short hair was a matter of self-acceptance. Each time the family stylist took the scissors to my head, I felt like I was uncovering my face beneath all the decorations. Without hair to frame my face, I was forced to see my sleepy eyes, my upturned nose, my thin, English lips. My face was the truth; I would not grow my hair again until I knew the truth well enough to know how to frame it properly. By the end of my senior year, my hair was growing out, shaggy blond ends fanning out around my ears, and I knew who I was and why I was pretty (in my own flawed little way). Read next feature >