Lulu & Me
"To be yourself in a world that is constantly trying to make you something else is the greatest accomplishment." - Ralph Waldo Emerson
In “For Dear Life”, I was using Barbie as a surrogate, but, as I grew in confidence, I began to turn the camera on myself and started exploring self-portraiture. This led to “Lulu & Me”, a series of images describing a pivotal moment in my childhood when an accidental entanglement of my long hair in my mum’s sewing machine led to a forced transformation that in some ways marked the end of my girlhood. This small incident, seemingly minor yet profoundly impactful, initiated changes that have shaped my identity and the way I perceive myself. Hair is a powerful signifier of identity and gender. In “Lulu & Me” I explore how societal and familial perceptions are influenced by something as seemingly superficial as hair. After the incident, no longer called “Lulu” or “Daddy’s little girl”, and no longer conforming to the traditional feminine, short hair became a defining trait, influencing how others saw me and ultimately how I came to see myself. In this work, I am reclaiming and reframing my story, celebrating the strength that comes from embracing one’s true self.
I am four years old, sitting in a small wicker chair, squinting into the camera.
My chubby feet are poking through pink sandals like tiny bread loaves waiting on the tray to rise.
I’m smiling cheekily and twirling long, golden curls around my tiny finger.
They call me Sarah-Lou, Loubelle, or just Lulu.
My mum is busy sewing on the kitchen table.
I often endured the tedium of watching her pin down a pattern on the fabric, upset that she wasn’t playing dollies with me. But this morning, the whirr and the hum of the machine drew me in.
She made everything.
I watch as she gathers up and feeds the material through the metal teeth, pushing it forward, guiding it through.
Underneath the table, her foot is on the pedal.
She is driving, in control.
Shadadada-dum, shadadada-dum, shadadada-dum
The needle goes up and down, up and down, puncturing the fabric.
I draw my head closer to get a better look and suddenly my long locks get
caught in the wheel. My hair goes round and round at an alarming rate like cotton filling a bobbin.
I scream.
Without hesitation, mum grabs her pinking shears, the ones with the jagged edge, and cuts off my hair.
There is no rewind, no pause, no unpicking of the stitches.
There is no going back.
My long, curly hair is now short on one side, like a boy’s.
And even though there is no cut, there is no blood, she puts my head under the tap as if to staunch the flow and clean the wound.
Then she bandages it in a tea towel and bundles me into the car.
She is taking me to the hair salon to make things right,
and just like that,
Lulu is gone.