Kasia at Beautiful and Depraved has been writing some wonderful posts about beauty–how it’s found in odd places, how it can be earned.

A month or two ago, she wrote about a time her then-lover ordered her to cut her long hair. From reading her account, it seemed to me she found the experience terrifying but liberating. She felt ugly for weeks after she had cut her tresses, and then she found she was beautiful in ways that she hadn’t ever noticed before–especially that she was beautiful to women.

The same thing happened to me, but in reverse. When Robbie and I first met, I had a jaw length, jaunty haircut. It made me look cute, and young, and sometimes sexy, and my eyes sparkled through it.


One of the very first things Robbie asked was that I not cut my hair. I went for something like 18 months without letting scissors touch it. My mother despaired. She had always loved my short hair, and she always thought that long hair hung in my face and hid my eyes. After the first few months of nagging me about it, though, she started to get the picture. “I know,” she’d say, after gazing at my hair for a long moment. “Robbie likes it like that.” Now she doesn’t say anything, which is better. I’ve cut my hair two or three times in the thirty-three months Robbie and I have known each other.

While Kasia had always had long hair, I had always had short hair. From 5 to 15, I had the same Dorothy Hamill haircut. I was so skinny, with such straight, short hair, that people often called me a boy when I was a kid. Having long, feminine hair seemed to me silly, extravagant, excessive, wasteful, even. I had grown it out just twice–my sophomore year of college, and my very last year of grad school. Both were times I was working with tremendous diligence. It wasn’t that I didn’t have time to take care of my hair. It was that I didn’t have time to take care of the rest of me. I felt fat and full of junk food and miserable, and long hair was an easy way to hide it. I never associated long hair with beauty.

But this time around, being told to grow my hair, things were different. The first year of having long hair was a revelation. People–men–reacted to me completely differently. With a smile and a shake of my locks, I could get anything, it seemed. My hair is beautiful–it’s long and shiny and naturally curly. The mother of one of my childhood friends always said it was my “best feature,” which I found a particularly backhanded compliment. I’m not as sure it’s as simple as short hair attracting pussy and long hair attracting cock, but it wouldn’t be far off from my experience.

My hair is still growing, though, and the last time we discussed the subject–over the summer–Robbie said that he would almost always have me have long hair. “For one thing, it gives me something to hang onto when I drag you around or have you blow me,” he said, a half-snarl, half-smile on his lips. “For another, I have always preferred women with long hair. And third, I particularly like the way you look with long hair. I think it’s very flattering for you.” He must have snarled that way about a dozen more times during the conversation, telling me what he’d have me do to my hair, and when.

Like many things about D/s, the rules about my hair can produce mixed feelings depending on how I’m doing, overall. When I feel happy and joyous, I delight in my hair, taking care of it, putting it up or swinging it around. When my mood is low, it shows in my pelt, I think. My hair is tangled and dry. At my lowest, when I am angry at Robbie and myself, I imagine hacking it off, at home, one of the more drastic acts of rebellious and self-destructive acts I can conjure.

But I haven’t and won’t. Whatever my hair is now is what I am, and I have earned it.


Photographs by David Bergman.