We Could All Use a Little Puberty
The Great Hair Debacle of 1989
When I was 12, the product “Sun-In” was all the rage. Many of my friends used Sun-In to bleach their hair, so I bought a bottle, doused my hair, and waited in the sunlight for dramatic changes to occur. The only big color difference was a few lighter strands of hair.
Eventually, I learned that Sun-In also works if you use a blow dryer. So I once again doused my hair in Sun-In and blew-dried the heck out of it multiple times to ensure its effectiveness. (Fun Fact: the bathroom had pretty dim lighting, so I was never quite sure if the Sun-In worked.)
After several rounds of dousing and blow-drying, I went out on the town with my friends. Their faces and laughter said it all: My hair had gone from a deep, dark brown to resembling a Flaming Hot Cheeto. In the dim of my bathroom, I was undergoing an exciting transformation. In the light of day, that transformation was on display, and it was embarrassing.
Amidst the embarrassment, my parents wouldn’t let me re-dye my hair; I was in the throes of puberty; and my bat mitzvah was taking place in four-months’ time.
A Bat Mitzvah on Two Fronts
In the Jewish tradition, bar/bat/b'nai mitzvahs are a rite of passage, a marker that the child has become an adult. In the Reform tradition I grew up in, 12 or 13-year-olds engage in months of preparation to lead the congregation in worship. It’s a powerful experience. However, I was worried my months of training would be moot once my awkward hair transition was on display in front of friends and family. After all, my hair was still half Hot Cheeto-colored by that time.
On my bat mitzvah day, however, the embarrassment about my hair dissipated once I started the service. Whether it was months of worry or months of accepting the long journey to my natural hair color, I was able to lead the congregation while embracing all my awkwardness (including the dress that looked like a repurposed table cloth). I was crossing the threshold into adulthood and self-acceptance at the same time.
Socialized into the Status Quo
Socialization is a powerful beast. Somewhere between the awkwardness of age 13 and the complexities of early adulthood, I had been socialized into the status quo in ways that run deeper than a few dousings of Sun-In. In those intervening years, I had been socialized in a range of ways: from acting more feminine and hiding my sexuality to striving for perfection and needing to be liked by everyone. This socialization also manifested in me dying my hair to cover the gray that started growing in at age 22. As much as I accepted my awkward self at age 13, I was too fearful to embrace the inevitable some 10 years later.
When I was an early-career teacher, a colleague told me I impressed her because I never screwed up. She meant it as a compliment, but when I reflected on what she said, my brain heard the following: I’m impressive because I stay within the lines, play by the rules, need to be perfect. For me, playing by society’s rules came at the cost of being human.
For many of us, socialization into the dominant culture means denying some part of ourselves. And while it’s far-fetched to connect dying one’s hair to cover her gray with the more harmful impacts of socialization, it’s not far-fetched to acknowledge that for the vast majority of us who don’t identify as the most privileged and powerful, being vulnerable comes at a cost. To avoid that cost is to assimilate, mask what’s most authentic, stay under the radar, uphold the status quo.
A PSA for PDA: Public Displays of Awkwardness
When I observe the conditions in education today, I lament that we haven’t taken enough lessons from the pandemic into the present. There were moments when we collectively experienced a “fuck-it” mentality around how we need to do school, and it felt liberating; we took bold risks that upended the status quo and made school a different enterprise. We were reimagining education. Additionally, we adults were more willing to fumble, embrace imperfection and vulnerability, and be more creative as a result.
For over 20 years, I took to the bottle—dyeing my gray hair to mask the inevitable, choosing chemicals over acceptance. During the pandemic, I, like many others, finally decided to grow out my gray hair in an experience I described as a second puberty. Actually, I called it my “hair bat mitzvah.” By the time I decided to grow out my gray, I stopped resisting the reality of my aging body, said “fuck it,” and embraced the awkward journey of a two-toned hairstyle—and did so on full display for over a year. It was the best decision I made.
I’m not advocating for another global pandemic to have the kinds of shake-ups we experienced collectively and personally. I also don’t wish puberty on anyone, but I think the lessons learned from these experiences are worth embracing as adults. What I do advocate for is intentional action steps to bring more vulnerability and humanity into the public sphere, challenge our socialization, and buck the status quo in small ways that lead to bigger impacts. Most of all, to take the important lessons of the past few years into a future of our remaking.
I am on a mission to create the kinds of conditions and learning spaces where people can make small bets and take safe-enough risks to embrace their vulnerability and awkwardness. In practice this means
inviting more comfort with discomfort: through bringing divergent activities and games into meetings and professional development, even if everyone looks silly;
being more adaptable to the needs of participants and straying from the planned agenda, even if it means heading into unknown territory and wresting some control as a facilitator;
using more wait time so people have time to think and process, even if the silence is awkward;
encouraging more creative responses to conventional problems, even if the ideas make little sense.
If you’re interested in being on this mission with me, feel free to reach out. I’d love to connect, perhaps swap some awkward stories, and be in community with you.
