I was 12 when I started growing out my hair for the first time. I didn’t do it out of a desire to be different or to try and make a statement, I did it because I thought it was cool (and I thought I would look cool with long hair, obviously). At that time in my life, my wardrobe consisted almost entirely of band t-shirts and hoodies, along with a couple of pairs of worn-out blue jeans that I rotated until they resembled a museum exhibit featuring the first pair of jeans ever manufactured. On the verge of crumbling into dust. The long hair would be the last piece of the puzzle, my transformation into a burgeoning rock star would be complete. All that was missing was the sex, drugs and musical talent, but I was only 12 after all.
By the time I was 14, I had achieved my goal. Long hair. Properly long too. Combined with my fashion sense, which was at odds with the fashion sense of most other 14-year-olds around me, you might say I stood out. When a large chunk of the people around you seem to be sponsored by Adidas, my Metallica tops weren’t exactly social camouflage (You have no idea how much it pains me that you can get Metallica shirts in Primark now, times have truly changed). That was something I hadn’t accounted for. I might have thought I looked cool, but that wasn’t necessarily the opinion of everyone else. People usually weren’t shy to tell me what they thought of the way I looked.
Not that I particularly cared. I had a level of self-confidence back then that I envy now. Any comments aimed at me, usually something along the lines of “freak” or “weirdo”, were met with my most trusted and effective response.
“Fuck off”.
Water off a duck’s back.
Although my resolve was strong, getting shit every day at school does begin to take a toll. It wasn’t always an overheard comment or a direct insult, sometimes it was a look. It’s hard to describe the feeling when you see someone look you up and down and then giggle or turn to friends and point. I imagine it’s similar to how a dog must feel after they’ve run the length of the park only to realise you didn’t throw the ball, it’s still in your hand. Infuriating and more than a little embarrassing. Over time, it did start to get to me. I began to question if it was worth maintaining what I considered my individuality in the face of everything.
I was incredibly lucky in that while I might have looked and dressed differently from everyone else, I always had good friends who looked past that fact. Friends who were forgiving, because my frustrations sometimes manifested themselves as words or actions that I didn’t mean. A support system I am eternally grateful for because not everyone is as fortunate as me. Sometimes I felt a bit isolated or like I was standing on the outside looking in, but I was never alone.
I kept my long hair for a couple more years, but eventually, I capitulated and got it cut short. Admitting defeat to a pair of scissors, I felt somewhat ashamed that I had caved in, that I had given up and conformed. It sounds dramatic, but it felt like I was giving up a huge aspect of who I was as a person, just to try and fit in. The number of band tops in my wardrobe also declined drastically, and I made a conscious effort to blend in. Sometimes, I felt like I was pretending to be someone else entirely. A method actor in way too deep.
It worked though, practically overnight the way people treated me changed. Significantly less funny looks and barely audible comments as I walked by. My initial shame gave way to relief. It was nice not feeling on edge constantly, that I had to be ready to defend myself. Instead of standing out, I was one with the crowd.
It wasn’t all positive, however. I began to develop a self-consciousness that hadn’t been there before. I found myself worrying about what people would think of my outfits. Was I wearing the correct brand? Was I wearing the same shoes as everyone else? Is this jacket acceptable or am I going to get the piss taken out of me for it? Before, I wouldn’t think twice about what I had on before I left the house. I liked it and fuck what anyone else had to say on the matter. Throw on a pair of jeans and a hoodie and I was good to go.
Not anymore.
Eventually, I started to settle and feel more confident and comfortable with this new person I had become, and a little bit of that individuality I had tried to erase began to creep back in. It took time and perspective to realise that individuality is something you should cherish, and not something to try and hide. A little bit of that “don’t give a fuck” attitude can be a healthy thing.
For a long time afterwards, years in fact, whenever I saw pictures of myself from those days I found myself feeling profoundly embarrassed. I wanted to forget that I ever looked like that, that my hair was ever that long, that I ever wore those faded ill-fitting jeans. I would think to myself “Fuck, I can’t believe I went out like that, that people saw me”. It was a period of my life that I tried not to reflect on.
Almost a decade on, however, when I look back at pictures from that time, I no longer feel that sense of embarrassment. I feel kind of proud if anything, that for a little while I was brave enough to dress exactly how I wanted to dress and look exactly how I wanted to look, and that I didn’t let anything or anyone else influence me otherwise. I wish I had stuck to my guns for a bit longer. I wish I tried to find another alternative and didn’t sacrifice so much of who I was.
Most of all I wish I kept some of that band merchandise because it’s probably worth a fucking fortune now.