Have you ever had the distinct feeling that your body wasn’t your own? As a kid and as a teenager I was aware that decisions about how I looked and acted were controlled by my father.
I’m not referencing protective parenting where you won’t allow your child to cross a highway because you fear they’ll be struck by a truck. I’m referring to my dad not letting me get my hair cut. If I wanted to cut my hair, I had to get my dads approval first because he liked it long. Even after the major moment, when I was thirteen and finally allowed to cut my long hair, my dad continued to express his disapproval of me cutting my hair short. The shortest I ever had it cut was to my chin but that was still too short.
Throughout high school as my hair was cut, re-grown, and then cut again my dad could never say anything positive about how I looked. He scoffed at me, teased me, laughed at me, or told that he didn’t like my hair cut. I was caught in a trap with my dad. I only felt good or beautiful when my dad thought I was beautiful so I was chasing the balance between my father’s approval and my own. He only seemed capable of praising me when he had made a decision for me. My image wasn’t my own to decide. And when I deviated from a norm that was determined by my father, I was expected to understand that I wouldn’t be supported.
