I’ve had short hair longer than I’ve had a driver’s license. For almost 14 years, my identity has been shaped in part by my pixie cut—cropped, choppy, blunt, feminine, powerful. But as I approach my July wedding, there’s a quiet, certain part of me that’s ready to let it grow. Here, I explain why I decided to chop my hair in the first place, what it’s really like to maintain a pixie, why I’ve decided to grow it out now, and what I hope to discover—about my hair and myself—through the journey ahead.
Why I cut my long hair into a pixie
I first cut my hair short at 14 years old. I’d been on the professional ballet scene for five years at that point, and in the dance world—especially in the early 2010s—girls were expected to look one way: long hair, bun-ready, swanlike. But something in me rebelled. On the one hand, I needed some sense of control in the midst of my parents’ messy divorce, and on the other, I was sick of the rigid conformity of the ballet environment. In many ways, I felt like a copied and pasted version of the girl standing next to me at the ballet barre. I remember sitting in the salon chair, asking the stylist to chop it all off. She blinked twice. “Are you sure?” she asked. I was.
At the time, I told everyone I was going for Miley Cyrus’ edgy blonde pixie—I had grown up with Hannah Montana, why wouldn’t I follow the songstress into rebellion territory? In truth, it was more than that. I needed a reset. At 14, I was beginning to understand that girlhood had rules, and I didn’t like them. The pixie cut was a declaration: I didn’t need long hair to be soft, pretty or noticed. I could be confident, charming and bold without it.
For most of high school, I was “the girl with the short hair.” It became part of my brand. Strangers commented on it constantly—some assuming I was edgy or queer, some calling it brave, others asking why I’d “do that to myself.” It taught me early on how gender norms are policed, often without people realizing they’re doing it.
I could go on and on about the social and emotional implications of short hair, and how I’m nowadays compared more to a Lily Collins or Audrey Hepburn—it’s the bold eyebrows—than a “Bangerz”-era Miley who had folks a bit worried. But what most of you are likely here for are the reasons why I’m letting this phase of my life go, and the cons that really set a pixie cut apart.
Pixie cuts require so much maintenance
Short hair isn’t easier than long hair. It’s actually high-maintenance in its own unique way. With a pixie, every three to four weeks, you’re back in the chair. Bangs too long? Suddenly, you’re in Beatles territory. The sides grow out? Now it’s a mushroom. There’s no margin for error or the gentle disguise of a ponytail. My bathroom drawers are filled with matte clays, texturizing sprays and the occasional emergency baseball cap for those in-between-cut mornings.
And it’s not just the products—it’s the strategy. With a pixie cut, you become hyper-aware of how each section of hair behaves. The nape grows out faster than the top, the bangs lose their shape in days, and any awkward stage is glaringly obvious because there’s no length to hide behind. I have two cowlicks that seem to grow their own wayward personalities the second my hair hits a certain length, and it’s a constant battle to tame them without overloading my scalp with product.
Then there’s the styling paradox. Everyone assumes short hair means no work. But that couldn’t be more wrong. Every inch matters. You learn how to position the blow dryer at just the right angle to avoid helmet head and how to apply just enough texturizing spray without turning your hair into a grease trap. Some days, it feels like I spend more time thinking about my hair than my friends who have waist-length waves.
The financial burden of a pixie cut
You’d also think that having less hair would mean spending less money on haircuts, but that’s not always the case. Despite receiving what is essentially a men’s haircut for over a decade, I still pay the female haircut price—sometimes twice as much for a fraction of the hair. Salons typically charge based on gender, not on hair length or style.
In the early days of my pixie, I remember feeling ripped off every time I handed over $75 for a quick trim that took all of 15 minutes. Meanwhile, the guy in the chair next to me, getting nearly the same cut, was paying $30. Over the years, I’ve bounced from high-end salons to budget barbershops, trying to find a place that can handle the delicate dance of a well-cut pixie without charging a small fortune. And yes, I have had my hair butchered by folks who don’t know how to get short hair.
But the cost isn’t just in the cuts. Short hair requires more frequent appointments to maintain its shape, so what might be a biannual trim for long-haired folks is a monthly ritual for pixie cut gals. Add to that the arsenal of styling products—pomades, clays, texturizing sprays, dry shampoos—and the costs start to pile up quickly. Short hair might look low-maintenance, but it’s anything but budget-friendly. Now, my gracious sister-in-law cuts my hair in her backyard—a holdover from COVID-19 lockdown days—essentially handing me back the thousands I’ve spent maintaining a pixie.
Why I’ve decided to grow out my pixie cut
When I got engaged last year, I assumed I’d keep the cut. It felt like me. But the closer I get to the wedding, the more I feel the quiet desire to grow. Not just my hair—but into this next version of myself. I don’t want waist-length hair or anything dramatic, but there’s something symbolic in letting go of the sharp edges and seeing what happens. I’ve had the pixie cut for every major moment of my adult life: college, moving in with my future husband, job promotions, funerals and triumphs. And I’m curious who I’ll be on the other side of it.
Of course, the grow-out process will be brutal. Every woman who’s done it knows the awkward stages—where your hair sticks out in places you didn’t think hair could stick. But I’m embracing the awkwardness this time. Growing my hair out is a quiet act of transformation. And for the first time in a long time, I don’t need my hair to say something about me. I just want to see what it does when I stop trying to control it.
I was the editor-in-chief of my university newspaper—a right of passage for most editorial folks—and I once wrote an op-ed about having short hair. In the piece I said, “If one thing about my edgy, teenage self has stuck, it’s my hair. I went from a high school freshman that carried a pink backpack to an edgy teen with black Converse and an attitude. My tattoos, my piercings and my hair sealed the deal of a cold teenaged outer persona that, oddly enough, I was very happy with.”
If only I could give that kid a hug.
I still believe short hair is beautiful. It can be radical. It can be freeing. It can be chic, strong, soft, powerful and punk. But so can long hair. And so can change.
So, come July, I’ll get married with the same pixie cut I’ve had for over a decade. But the next morning? I’ll wake up and start the slow, slightly shaggy, beautifully uncertain process of growing something new.