![]() ‘While this short hair trend isn’t solely pandemic-driven, the desire to move forward and take back some control is manifesting in bold crops.’ ‘The last two years have been about low-key beauty, and while fear of future lockdowns is making some people stay safe with their hair, others are really seizing the moment,’ she explains. ‘It’s almost as if this was an opportunity to see a wider version of themselves and take that exquisite risk.’ Clare Varga, head of beauty at trend-forecaster WGSN, which has been mapping the pandemic’s far-reaching influence on beauty, agrees. ‘Through the pandemic I saw some of my clients make quite radical changes,’ psychotherapist Lorraine Collins tells me. Clients who had always been protective of their length were like, “What the hell, I don't care, just lop it off.”’Īrmando Grillo // LAUNCHMETRICS SPOTLIGHT People are still asking for variations of a bob but really going for it, taking it up to like the jawline up to the hairline at the nape. Famous for his signature celebrity-coveted shaggy bobs, Northwood was surprised at the shift in his clientele’s attitudes. It was a priority for so many people,’ says hairstylist George Northwood. ‘I was astounded, especially after lockdown, how important hair became. Billie Eilish swapped her long blonde hair for a choppy, textured bob Michaela Coel emerged with a shaved head for her powerhouse performance in I May Destroy You, and Emma Corrin traded in her already jaw-skimming cut for an angular Nineties crop. From the wolf cut to the shullet, 'unconventional' made an unexpected comeback: the bolder, the better. The styles have become shorter, louder, madder. Where pre-pandemic, our screens were saturated with long, glossy, polished hair on the heads of everyone from hopeful Love Island contestants to Met Gala attendees, something has now changed. Without knowing it at the time, once lockdown was announced, most of us wouldn’t see the inside of a hair salon for months. They forced us to relinquish our routines, beauty rituals in particular, which had kept us anchored to our sense of identity. Now, in 2022, pandemic-necessitated lockdowns have flipped our concepts of normality and ushered in an unexpected approach to beauty. I also found that post-cut lack of male attention exhilarating and comforting.Īndrea Adriani // LAUNCHMETRICS SPOTLIGHT I was a tomboy throughout my childhood, and I was fascinated by the distance between me and the femininity exhibited by my peers. Sometimes, I’d grow my hair out just long enough to warrant a temporary bout of male attention, but it was always cut short by another spontaneous trip to the salon- the perplexed expressions the next day proving just as gratifying as the chop itself. My dedication to the scissors was met with compliments of pure incredulity from friends whose beautiful hair remained at a steady, constant length, often followed with, 'It suits you so much, but I could never do it.' When I felt a loss of control or was at odds with my identity (during my teenage years, it was surprising my hair had any opportunity to grow out at all), that familiar yearning would appear again. It was a ritual that I would return to time and time again. It was my first experience of the liberating rush cutting off your hair can induce- and I was hooked. Ninety minutes and 12 inches-less hair later, I emerged with a razored pixie cut and a fresh sense of my own identity. I went to my hairdressers accompanied by my mother- supportive of my decision but not equipped to wield the scissors herself my childhood bowl-cut was the beginning and end of her haircutting career- with dog-eared magazine references of Rihanna and Frankie Bridge in hand. ![]() It was an act of meticulously planned reinvention as the start of secondary school loomed. ![]() When I was 11 years old, I cut off all my hair.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |