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I'm in my mid-30s, and I am only finding out the joys of combing your hair. I have had long hair for most of my life, because I was told that as a Filipina with very much non-Euro features (meaning flat nose, round face, and brown skin), my hair is my femininity. I'm cis, and being told that I look like a boy made me feel ugly (not that boys are ugly, but the implication that I am not the identity I feel makes me physically sick, so you know, TRANS RIGHTS!). I didn't cut my hair, but I also almost never combed it. Do you know what happens when you don't comb your hair and you spend your days in bed because of depression? I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder when I was 23, and for most of my 20s, I was vacillating between depressive and manic episodes. During manic phases (I say phase because sometimes they span years with little breaks in between), I would not comb my hair because I thought that the wildness of it reflected the boho-punk aesthetic I was going for, the wild childness that could have justified the chaos of my life. On depressive phases, I did not comb my hair because it was too much work -- my hair often fell past my shoulders and spending my days unable to get out of bed meant that the tangled mess on my head required an arm workout.

My hair became a matted mess that I hid in a bun when I needed to go out. I couldn't get a comb through it, until it got to the point that I needed to get a hair cut because the knot got too huge and too embarrassing. Yes, embarrassing, because one thing that people forget when they glorify depression is how it fcking makes you feel like you're stupid for not getting your life in order. Taking care of my hair was supposed to be basic hygiene, and I was terrified that someone would clock me for being gross. Kababae mong tao, they would say -- the implied disappointment of not being up to the standards of being a woman a thousand cuts that chain me to the bed. A vicious cycle.