You don’t really know what goes on with a person just by solely looking at them.
You don’t know where their thoughts are in this very moment, or what goes on behind closed doors and away from the public. Even the minor things you may notice about a person: you don’t really know what the hell is going on.
So, if this is the case, why do we feel so comfortable pointing out things about a person without knowing anything that person is dealing with? Even more so, why do we feel like we’ve earned the right to comment on things about people and their appearance?
I think about the whole body conversation happening on the internet regarding Ariana Grande, especially after starting her tour earlier this summer and images of her on stage went viral online. This isn’t the first time she has fell victim of the body comments (and isn’t the first celebrity to be critiqued about their body). In fact, these conversations date back a couple of years back, especially when promoting the Wicked movie franchise with an image that was completely different than the one most know her for. While some people will debate that she’s in the public eye which means people will no doubt look at her and comment on her appearance, she’s still a human at the end of the day and we do not have the right to comment on her body, and if you feel like you do for some strange reason, keep it to yourself. (Hi there, future Liz here! Please take for consideration that this was written prior to her album release and her hiatus announcement due to the discourse currently happening about her. Despite my personal opinion on the subject, I am simply saying that these conversations should be had in private with those closest to her, despite her being in the public eye. Just like any other human being, she deserves the right to some privacy.)
Hi, my name is Liz, and my hair is not up for discussion.
Lemme explain.
It’s no secret that this last year I’ve had a difficult relationship with my hair. For context: I’ve cut my hair short earlier this year, I’ve had bad trich episodes that left me with bald spots, I’ve dyed and bleached, dyed and bleached, dyed and bleached and dyed it again, cut it immensely short, and here I am 7 months later still having a hard time with my hair. I grew up with my hair being linked to my identity, and it’s been pretty hard to rewire my brain to delink the two. On top of that, I’ve secretly dealt with trichotillomania for 19 years before it was officially diagnosed in 2025. In a nutshell, I’ve always had this weird relationship with my hair, but this year has felt like a constant battle.
The people around me have noticed too.
Within the last couple of months, I’ve had people commenting on my hair in both good and bad ways. When I officially bleached and dyed my hair pink earlier this year, it gave me attention I wasn’t used to getting (it had been a couple of years since I rocked a vivid color like that). From then, I guess I was trying to feel that initial high I felt when I first did it, thinking everything had to “feel right” in order to leave it alone.
Needless to say it never felt right after that, and more and more people felt the need to comment on the constant changes.
“You’re obsessed.”
“Again?”
“What; do you dye your hair every night or something?”
The list goes on.
It has gotten to a point where I feel anxious every time I make a hair decision these days because even if it’s a change I want to do, I fear someone might say something about it, and that’s disheartening; to take something that’s suppose to feel good now feeling like a dirty secret I was keeping until I went out in public. To get even more personal with it: From the hours of 8PM to 12AM yesterday of the day I’m writing this, I processed my hair (color remover, bleach, toner, semi AND permanent hair dye) possibly 7 times. In secret. In hopes that once I got out of the bathroom, nobody in my house would say anything about it. Nothing felt right to me, and when I kept getting that urge to fix it, I worried that I’d be subjected to unwanted comments about something I’ve been highly insecure about this year.
That’s it. That’s my story about struggling with my hair, all while having my hair exposed to others to judge and comment on.
Making comments about something that a person is silently struggling with makes the relationship with it even harder to deal with. It only fuels the inner voice in your head that mimics what other people are saying about it. “You need to stop fucking with your hair, Liz.” “Maybe you do have a hair addiction that you not even aware of.” “You’re hair obsessed.” “Why do you always get triggered when the topic of your hair is discussed?” “People are judging the fuck outta you, girl.” In a way, it even confirms that that inner voice, the one I usually as the judgmental one, is probably right about these things and that I should listen to it more–even if listening to it means that I care about what other people think of me–which goes against everything I stand for.
Maybe I’m just dealing with something internally that I’m not made aware of yet: self-image, identity, content with one’s self–who knows? Maybe the way my body is acting out the uncertainty is by constantly changing my hair because it wants to feel that feeling again when I used to get positive attention toward it.
Even if all of that is true, what I decide to do or not to do with my hair is not up for discussion, even if I choose to share my journey with trichotillomania and hair OCD on the internet. I speak about it to diffuse the energy, but it’s not an invitation for people to comment–or make comments–about it. At the end of the day, I am still learning how to manage this through a new lens, and with that comes a ton of trial and error. My inner voice wouldn’t be so fed up about this if I could manage my trichotillomania and hair OCD the way I want to at the end of the day.
Be kind to others, that’s all. When you think you’re helping someone by giving them your unsolicited advice, you might be hindering, or feeding the negativity behind the thing at hand.
Oh, and you don’t need to hide your bald-ass head; it’s literally the middle of summer, queen.
Letters From Liz. 