The strange power of hair or a memoir in ten hairstyles.

Up until the age of 14, I had long hair, mostly past shoulder length. I didn’t think about my hair really, but after my first year of high school – torturous due to being made aware of the evils of my otherness – I decided to attempt to reinvent myself. My otherness was mostly out of my control: I wore glasses; did not style my long hair as I hadn’t got the memo explaining that was now an expectation; played violin in the orchestra (while I did not relate to the other nerdy musos who were good at everything, not just music, walking through the yard with a violin case was an invitation to insult from my less learned peers); did not wear makeup and was not at all fashion conscious – my school uniform hung loose and to my knees; showed no interest in boys; spoke well, with clear and concise diction and annunciation; and my parents divorced.

1983

My mother’s hairdresser was housed in an unconventional spot, an otherwise unused office space on the second floor above the busy outdoor Rundle Mall. It was their habit to share a bottle of champagne while Elaine preened my mum and they talked about life. It was my habit to go for a walk to avoid the tedium of the adults. The day that I had decided to enact my personal style reinvention was a traumatic one. Not knowing how to instruct the hairdresser due to my complete lack of fashion nous, I probably said something like “I just want it to be shorter and with more style…” The resulting cut horrified me. The bob looked ridiculous. After bursting into tears, the adults laughed and cajoled and said I just needed to get used to it. I went for my walk while they settled into their rituals. As I walked and cried, I felt sure that all the strangers in the Mall were looking in agreeance at the terrible fashion choice that had just been inflicted on me. Returning to collect my mother, I broke with all previous conventions and insisted that Elaine get rid of the bob. I remember having to really hold my ground as both the women seemed convinced, I looked great.

1983 part two

One of my closest friends for a while was my neighbour. Erica was a few years older than me, but we got along fine and enjoyed hanging out. Her mum Mrs F was a super conservative traditional stay at home mum, in comparison to my own slightly wild and interesting mum, who gardened barefoot and went to University. I knew instinctively to always be on my best behaviour when I went over to Erica’s.

Mrs F was never that warm or friendly, our interactions brief and polite, usually just when she answered the door. I don’t remember ever meeting the father, Erica usually encouraged a change of venue to my house when he came home. If we were hanging out at Erica’s place, she would let out her budgie to fly free or we would relocate to the downstairs family room, to have adult free time.

The first time I saw Mrs F after my haircut remains one of my strongest memories from that time of my life. Erica had answered the door and as we walked together through to the kitchen, her mum appeared. Her face was suddenly broken and bereft. She came up to me, placed her hands on my shoulders and burst into tears. “What have you done to your beautiful hair!?” she cried. I was completely unprepared for this event and had no idea how to react. The back and forth was something like this: me “I just wanted a change”, her, “..but your beautiful hair” (sob), me, “it will grow back”, her, “oh, your beautiful hair” (sob). I remember some references to my femaleness now being questioned and how important my long hair was to my identity as a girl.

Sometime about a year later, I saw my dad for the first time since he had left our home almost two years prior. He took me to the Pancake Kitchen for dinner – I don’t know why, I hated that place. I only remember two things about that night. Him reaching across the table to touch my hair while saying “such a shame about your beautiful hair, why didn’t you keep it like your sister’s”. There was no mention of his reasons for leaving, if he intended on returning, and when I might see him again.

1990

When I was about 21, I shaved my head for the first time. Shaved clean, not just cropped. It was incredibly liberating, and the first time I had been able to look in the mirror and say “I’m beautiful”. I recognised how radical this notion was after a lifetime of messaging that long luscious hair equalled feminine beauty. I loved this new knowledge. I felt cool, interesting, gorgeous and free.

My grandmother had moved to a country town north of Adelaide around this time and I would go and visit her once a month, take her shopping, hang out. She had moved a lot since my mid-teens and my visits were a habit we both enjoyed – essential for her as she never drove. She absolutely hated my shaved head. We agreed not to discuss it as a way of keeping the peace. Out shopping one day, I caught her telling the op-shop volunteer that I had cancer. I asked her to never do that again, but I realised that apart from all her grief at my alleged lack of feminine appeal, she was embarrassed. Embarrassed at my choice. Embarrassed to be seen with me in public. I felt sad for her, for the burden of her judgement.

I got into Art School the not long after, encouraged to apply after a friend discovered the paintings I had been experimenting with. On the first day I was early, sitting in the open central courtyard, head freshly shorn, nervously waiting for this new chapter to begin. Aware that some bloke around my age was staring at me, I tried to project cool, calm, arty. He approached me and said my name, as if asking the question, was he right? Yes, I spluttered, but who was he!? Apparently, we had gone to primary school together and he recognised me. I was devastated that my cool new disguise was not the successful shaking off of my childhood persona that I had imagined it to be.

1996

I had always wanted to try the platinum blonde thing. I loved it. Maintenance was a drag though and after a while I wondered at the effect all that bleach was having on my brain cells. These two factors combined to letting the blonde grow out. A spiky crop of various shades of red saw me through the next few years.

2003

After working in various arts sectors for more than 15 years, I prepared to enter the strangely conservative world of education. I tamed my sharp edges. Tried to look less like a lesbian. Yes, I realised that I was actually going back into the closet, after all my brave years of being out, standing up to homophobic abuse. This was the cost of my new career. And true enough, the first few years were very hard. Homophobia is completely rampant in schools. It comes from all directions and is very rarely challenged.

My first year of teaching was in a Catholic School. I was offered another year contract – on the caveat that I ensure to remain “subtle”. The deputy charged with making this offer assured me that they really wanted to keep me, it’s just that I would have to be, you know… I declined their demeaning offer, happy to know I had scored a job in the public sector. On my last day at that school, a colleague I had shared an office with and who had been particularly awful in terms of treating me like a strange pariah, tearily gave me a Christmas card and confessed her shame at how she had treated me, because of my, you know… She went on to say she now realised that I was a good person, was a great teacher, and gushed how well I worked with young people. I think I was meant to forgive her. I figured she could prescribe her own Hail Marys.

In the first 5 or so years of teaching, there were so many times I considered leaving, but I also knew I had found my passion. I loved teaching. I resolved to throw aside the fear and just be me. I wanted to be a positive role model. It worked.

2013

I decided to grow my hair again. Just to see. It was pretty luscious when I was a kid. And anyway, I needed to try something different – maybe a different hairstyle would help shift the growing dread. It was personally and professionally exhausting. Working within a system that was not fit for purpose for any young person who did not fit the mould. Working with people who were happy to ignore that fact. Working with people who were threatened by my willingness to challenge the status quo. People who were uncomfortable around me unless I was playing all the games right, with their rules that didn’t fit my vision of education. Rules that didn’t fit me. Feeling increasingly powerless in the face of belligerent, rude indifference, but unable to walk away (how would I pay the mortgage?) I tried to stick it out.

2014

It’s awful in summer, takes forever to dry in winter, gets in my face if I don’t tie it back, especially in the wind. It’s curlier and knottier than I remember. It’s a pain.

2015

I want to shake off the blues. After a terrible few years of depression, of battling increasingly conservative and hostile leaders and complacent colleagues, I plan my escape from an awful work situation, walk away from a crappy relationship and cut off all my hair again. I feel lighter.

2023

Upon moving to the country, I no longer have access to my hairdresser, the one who had for years, on and off, helped me to maintain an arty alternative chic. Not seeing anyone who looks anything like me in this new community, I conclude it is unlikely that I will find a local hairdresser with the appropriate aesthetic to meet my needs. I resolve to cut my own hair.

I am leaving work late one evening – actually I leave late most evenings, my work is never done, a lesson it will take me another 2 years to resolve – the sun is setting and I call out goodnight to the two boys relentlessly shooting hoops in the dying light. One of the boys I rarely see. He is on an alternative program, an all-round tricky character, known for his unwillingness to comply to any behavioural norms. Difficult, rude, provocative and very likeable.

“Hey, Ms B, you got a haircut”, he yelled.

“Yes”, I replied.

“It makes you look like a lesbian”, he taunts.

“Thank you, yes. That’s what I was going for”, I say, smiling and waving goodbye. “Have a great night boys”.

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All text and images © Dani Burbrook 2026

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