I Shaved My Head as a Social Experiment (So You Don’t Have To)

Twelve months ago, I did something women are told never to do unless we’re Britney Spears mid-2007: I shaved my head. Not a pixie cut, not a trendy undercut. A full, unapologetic buzz cut.

I wasn’t having a breakdown, I wasn’t trying to make a fashion statement, and I wasn’t gearing up to join the army. I was simply… tired. Tired of spending hours styling my hair. Tired of straighteners hissing at me every morning. Tired of constantly feeling like my hair wasn’t good enough — too frizzy, too flat, too much work.

And then it hit me: who was I really doing all this for? Sure, I liked playing with my look. But at that point in my life, long hair felt less like a choice and more like a contract I had signed with the male gaze. Society doesn’t say it out loud, but it implies it at every turn: women with long hair = attractive. Women with short or no hair = making a “statement,” usually one labelled “aggressive,” “unfeminine,” or my personal favourite, “brave.”

So, clippers in hand, I decided to call society’s bluff.

The Buzz (Pun Intended)

The first pass of the clippers was euphoric. A liberation I hadn’t expected. All that weight — physical and metaphorical — slid down my shoulders and onto the bathroom floor. Suddenly, I could shower in thirty seconds flat. My electricity bill went down because I wasn’t running a hairdryer for half an hour every day. My mornings became deliciously slow, and I could actually drink my coffee hot instead of gulping it down before running out the door.

For the first few weeks, I strutted around like a woman who had cracked the code. No bad hair days. No frizz. No split ends. No catfishing my reflection when I woke up in the morning. Just me, scalp and all.

But after the initial buzz wore off (yes, pun absolutely intended), the social experiment began to reveal its results.

The Reactions: Men, Women, and Nan

The first thing I noticed: men stopped looking at me. Overnight, I had become invisible. Strangers who would have wolf-whistled or stared at me in the supermarket walked past without a flicker. No “smile, love” comments. No “you’d look prettier if you…” remarks. In some ways, it was bliss. I could walk down the street and feel — for the first time — free of the ever-present scan of male eyes.

Women, on the other hand, didn’t really react. No judgement, no applause, no solidarity. Maybe they were too polite to comment. Maybe it just didn’t register. Or maybe women have better things to do than audit another woman’s hair choices.

The one exception was my nan. Oh, my nan. She treated my shaved head like I’d committed a small crime against femininity. Weekly lectures about how I should “grow it back before it’s too late.” She’d mutter things about men liking women with long hair, about how I looked “hard” now. Was it generational? Absolutely. But it was also a reminder of how deeply these beauty standards are embedded in us.

The Relationship Test

The other part of the experiment? My partner.

He had always said he preferred women with long hair. And honestly, that comment used to sit in the back of my mind like a ticking bomb. Would he still find me attractive without it? Would this be the moment he realised long hair was part of the deal he’d signed up for?

Here’s the surprising truth: he didn’t flinch. Not once. He never made me feel unattractive. He didn’t drop hints about me “growing it back.” If anything, he made me feel more seen because he never reduced me to my hairstyle.

But here’s the twist: I did.

The Unexpected Truth: I Felt Unattractive

This was the hardest part of the experiment to admit. I thought shaving my head would make me feel strong, empowered, above the petty opinions of men. And for a while, it did. But after the novelty faded, I felt… ugly.

Not all the time. But enough to notice.

And that forced me to confront some uncomfortable questions:

• Was this internalised misogyny?
• Did I secretly enjoy male attention more than I thought I did?
• Had I been styling my hair all those years because I wanted to, or because I craved validation?
• Or was it simpler — did I just miss the creative freedom of styling my hair to match my mood?

Hair as Identity

Hair is such a bizarre battleground for women. Too long, and you’re accused of hiding behind it. Too short, and you’re “trying too hard to be edgy.” Shave it off, and suddenly you’re making a political statement whether you want to or not.

And here’s the kicker: men don’t get any of this. A man can shave his head and no one cares. At worst, people assume he’s balding. At best, he’s “rugged.” There’s no existential crisis attached.

For women, hair is identity. It’s the shorthand society uses to decide whether you’re feminine, desirable, professional, rebellious, approachable, queer, or “normal.” And whether we like it or not, we internalise those messages.

What I Learned After 12 Months

After a year with no hair, I realised my experiment wasn’t really about how others saw me. It was about how I saw myself. Shaving my head stripped me of the armour I didn’t even realise I was wearing. It forced me to face the uncomfortable truth that I had been relying on hair as a safety net — a way to signal femininity, desirability, even confidence.

Without it, I had to ask myself: who am I when I can’t hide behind a hairstyle?

The answer wasn’t always flattering. Sometimes, it felt like I was staring straight at my internalised misogyny. Sometimes, it felt like liberation. Most days, it was somewhere in between.

So, Should You Shave Your Head?

Would I recommend it? Yes — and no.

Yes, if you want to know what it feels like to completely remove yourself from the beauty script. Yes, if you’re curious about how much of your identity is tied up in your hair. Yes, if you want the most low-maintenance life possible.

But also no, if you think shaving your head will solve all your body image struggles. It won’t. The male gaze doesn’t vanish — it just shifts. The internal critic in your head doesn’t shut up — it just changes tactics.

What it will do is make you ask questions. Uncomfortable ones. Necessary ones. And maybe that’s the real power of it.

Final Thoughts: Beyond Hair

My shaved head grew out eventually, but the lessons stuck. The experiment wasn’t about hair at all. It was about what happens when you strip away the socially approved markers of femininity.

I became invisible to men, which was both a relief and a sting. I realised how deeply I’d absorbed society’s messages about beauty, even as someone who thought I’d outgrown them. And I learned that my relationship — the one I feared might falter — wasn’t based on hair length at all.

Would I do it again? Maybe. But the truth is, I don’t need to. Because the experiment worked. It showed me that hair doesn’t make me a woman, it doesn’t make me attractive, and it doesn’t make me me.

It’s just hair. And maybe the most radical thing we can do is finally start treating it that way.