I, Delilah and Samson
Major Life Changes Always Start with A Big Chop
“Who are you?”
Lately, I find myself asking myself that question more and more. During my typical “media training” practice sessions (with myself) for my inevitable red carpet interviews, I find that I no longer resonate with the same answers I’ve recited in my head for years.
“What defines you? Who are you without it?”
For me, it’s always been my hair. Not entirely, but definitely a huge part of my identity. Hair is a source of currency. It’s beauty. It’s pride. My strength and treasure—or so I thought. And though my hair hasn’t always been at the forefront of how I defined my beauty, the constant compliments over the years swelled its importance. So much so that I feel like I have been hiding behind it for years. Anyone remember when my IG handle was girlbehindthecurls? Ancient history, but truth lay behind that @ sign.
Each era of my life has had a corresponding hair story—plaits, cornrows, straightened, bangs, bob, natural curls (damaged and healthy) blonde skunk patch, red, blonde balayage. Every style expressed a part of who I was at the time. The look was never just a look—it was a reflection of my internal self. (The first time I got box braids, I finally felt like a real Black girl, not a girl who constantly fielded “What are you mixed with?” questions. Just a beautiful Black girl.) But for the last year, the expression has felt…off.
April 2023 was the last time I refreshed my blonde balayage. I initially wanted a different look for my new adventure in London, but maintaining it seemed too high-maintenance for the new chapter. I thought London would mark a new version of me—and in a way, it did—but the true transformation began once I returned home.
Reading Julia Cameron’s The Artist’s Way sparked something in me. A deeper version of myself started to form—the artist I had long relegated to third or fourth place in my identity. As I spent months uncovering and embracing that side of me, I found myself at odds with my blonde hair. Silk presses, braid outs, wash-and-gos—none of it felt right. Even my beloved Pinterest-aesthetic styles lacked their usual luster. So, I turned to my old faithful: the clippers.
For the last six months, the clippers and I have been very familiar with each other. Initially, our rendezvous was just trimming maintenance for my ends, that eventually led to me chopping my lower back length hair in half. The chop felt lighter but not significant enough as I've had medium length hair before. It didn’t feel like the woman artist I’ve been building myself up to be, but I let it ride. That was April 2024.
In August 2024, I twirled my blown out hair that was originally set for an at home press, while binge-watching The Decameron. My color was so grown out, my deep roots surpassed the lower band of my hair tie by an inch and a half. Annoyed by the physical difference and feel of my new growth versus the blonde, I impulsively met the clippers again for another rendezvous, only this time with deeper intentions.
With my hair gathered in a ponytail at the top of my crown, I began to whack my locks at the line where dark brown met blonde. I was distinctively aware this could go terribly wrong but had this relaxing feeling this was the correct course of action. Three minutes later, I had a severed ponytail in my hand and a haircut that favored a mullet. Scary, but at least the layers resembled something like it was purposeful.
Finally, I could see the woman I’d been creating. The thickness of my natural hair running through my fingers felt like a physical manifestation of the depth I’d been crafting internally.The energy and heaviness of the girl I once was had been released, making room for the stronger foundation of the woman I was becoming.
My relief was met with even more love and wonder as I shampooed and styled my new cut, uncovering my new look in its natural state. My curls felt and looked like a joyous, authentic expression. For the first time in a long time, my hair reflected who I truly was.
But embracing my new look wasn’t without its challenges. I hadn’t fully prepared for how dramatically my appearance—and with it, my identity—had shifted. Less than 24 hours after the cut, I had to present myself to a group of entrepreneurs to discuss my business, which I had also decided to pivot. Already feeling vulnerable with my new hair, a family member’s comment that I “looked like a little girl or boy” added to the unease. I knew I needed to style myself in a way that embodied the confident, sophisticated Femme Creative I was becoming.
With a Sex in the City mindset, I chose a white t-shirt and striped knit skirt, layered with a cobalt blue blazer that complemented the city’s evening summer skyline backdrop of the rooftop mixer event. As I strutted from the parking lot to the hotel venue, my nerves began to build. But the steady click of my heels drowned out any anxious thoughts—I was here to make the first presentation of the new me.
Many of the attendees were new acquaintances, so it felt fitting to introduce them to this version of myself. Yet there were three people present who had always associated me with my long curly locks. I braced for their reactions, unsure of what to expect. When I casually mentioned my recent haircut to one of them, she barely acknowledged it. Her indifference left me wondering—did she dislike it, or did it truly not matter? The uncertainty stung briefly, but as I left the event, the admiration of a passerby who nearly tripped while staring at me reminded me that external opinions are fleeting.
Since that first night, the themes of those interactions have repeated themselves. I assumed cutting my hair would immediately make me feel like a new, confident person. But confidence isn’t instant—it’s a process. Though I don’t regret the cut, I’ve had moments where I wished to fast-forward the growth, frustrated by the awkwardness of styling my shorter length. It reminds me of Samson, hoping his hair would regrow to restore his strength, only to find it wasn’t the hair that made him strong after all.
Being in the middle of a transformation is unsettling—old maps don’t apply, and new ones are being drawn as you go. I’ve caught myself wanting to rush through the discomfort, not realizing that the discomfort is part of the journey. My hair, like my artistic self, is still growing. Some days I revel in the freedom of my short locks; other days, I long for the comfort of my old length. But as I remind myself—there are no shortcuts to greatness.
Almost three months have passed since I cut my hair. My hair is still beautiful, but it no longer carries the weight of my identity. Now it’s just one part of what makes me beautiful—along with my face, my energy, my personality, my outlook on life, and so much more.
Interestingly, I’ve always noticed that the women I admire most have all had a short hair or pixie-cut era. During those times, it seems they radiate confidence, almost as if they have no other choice but to. I’ve always wanted to be like them. To find my inner Delilah, take an unpopular action, and forge a new inner Samson. To prove to myself that my strength and value are not defined by the external, and to recognize and utilize my power and beauty from within.
