Cutting My Hair as a Rite of Passage
Cutting my hair marked the end of an initiation that had unfolded over years, and the beginning of something quieter, steadier, and more embodied.
“Okay, here we go. Are you ready?”
The hairdresser held her silver scissors midair, pausing to make sure this was really what I wanted.
“Yes. Let’s do it.”
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. When I heard the first snip, something released, as each loc fell to the floor, my breath deepened. Tears flowed from relief and grief. I felt lighter. I felt like I stepped into a new chapter.
She gathered my locs into a purple bag and mentioned that some people choose to reattach them, while others hold a burning ceremony. Without thinking, I knew which I would choose. The burning would come later.
Getting my hair washed and conditioned after the cut felt like a soapy baptism. I savored every scrub and massage. When the final reveal came, I sat in disbelief because I couldn’t believe I had finally done what I had been contemplating for the past two years.
For almost two years, I had recurring visions and dreams of offering my locs to my spirit guides and ancestors at my altar. Through meditation, channeling, and automatic writing, the message became clear: releasing my hair would help move stuck energy, allowing things to flow and settle into greater clarity. To step into who I am becoming, I needed to let go of what my hair had been holding: years of growth, grief, and energy I no longer desired to carry.
Although I set the hair appointment and decided to release my locs, I still wrestled with it. My locs had come to symbolize wisdom and a connection to unseen realms. But over time, I realized I don’t need my hair to access that connection. The locs were part of the journey, not the source of it.
That understanding didn’t arrive all at once. Long before I chose to cut my hair, my body had already begun letting go. Release had been moving through me. In my breath, my nervous system, and in what no longer needed to be held. The cut didn’t initiate that process; it followed it. Letting go of my hair felt like the next natural step, a continuation of what my body was already completing.
As I gazed at myself in the mirror and glanced down at my hair resting in the purple bag, I was reminded of a tradition found across cultures. Hair has long been cut at moments of transition, after loss, at the close of an initiation, or before entering a new chapter. The act isn’t about the hair itself, but about acknowledging that something has finished its work.
To honor this rebirth, I asked my husband to take a few photos of me so the moment could be witnessed. Allowing myself to be seen felt like part of the initiation itself.
I don’t need to name what comes next yet. For now, it’s enough to feel the space that’s been made.
I love how you frame hair as a symbolic, journey-aligning, and beautifully external expression rather than a soulfully internal valuation. It’s such a vital reminder—especially for Black women—that our hair best reflects who we are becoming, not define our worth. The beauty isn’t in the styling; it’s in the truth it represents.
You look beautiful. Gave me goosebumps to see you so I take that as good confirmation. My son cut his locs a few years back. His life really transformed after.