For months now you’ve been eyeing your hair with distaste. It is too limp, too dark, too dingy. Its ends are brittle and cracking. It does nothing for your face or form and even less to convey that you are aggressively, unapologetically feminist. ‘How will anyone know I’m capable of castrating a meninist at a glance with this lifeless mop?’ you think to yourself for the umpteenth time. Jane Fonda would never put up with this embarrassment.
So you trawl the Internet, looking for the perfect haircut, and you find Natalie Dormer’s Hunger Games ‘do. Her hair is still long and glorious, like a sunbeam spun into silk. It is feminine and enticing, perfect for luring prey, but the other side is naked and bold, reminding you of teeth being bared. You look at your head. Your turn your chin to the left and then to the right. You tilt it up and then down. You get out the hair ties and bobby pins. You nod. You could do that, you think. You could get an undercut.
And so you do.
But now you wonder if you should. As elderly men gasp and clutch at their rapidly failing hearts and women flock to you, touching the baby chick fuzz on one side of your head and saying wonderingly, “Where did you get this done?” you wonder if you’d taken the change too cavalierly. You don’t have enough stylist cards to pass around. You’ve lost six patrons just today, and your boss is too awestruck to come talk to you about the upcoming program curricula. There are no meninists to castrate with a glance as all of them have suddenly and without prior notice vacated the city limits. You are, through the change in your hair, creating a feminist utopia, but where’s the challenge, where’s the joy?
Fortunately, there are always men to destroy, even if they are no longer in your city. As you power up your computer, men across the world shiver. They know you’re coming.