I didn’t plan to cut my hair that day. I walked into the salon in Asok with bangs clinging to my forehead, still damp with tears and sweat. The breakup had been quiet—just a LINE message, two sentences, no explanation. But something in me had already started shedding.

“Short,” I told the stylist, gesturing just below my ears.

“Really?” she asked, eyes flicking to my long, waist-length hair.

“Yes. All of it.”

She hesitated, then began.

Snip.

I felt it—more than the sound, it was the lightness. The first lock slid down my shoulder like a decade falling off. I watched it land on the tile and realized: I wasn’t mourning him. I was mourning who I’d been while loving him.

In Thai culture, long hair has always been a kind of currency. A symbol of femininity, virtue, devotion. My mother braided mine every school day growing up. My ex loved it too—he’d run his fingers through it like it belonged to him.

Long hair is work. Hours spent washing, drying, oiling, tying. Products. Tools. Touch-ups. It was beautiful, but also performative. I was always maintaining it—for men, for tradition, for Instagram.

That day, I left the salon with a blunt bob that barely grazed my jawline. The stylist spun me toward the mirror, and I stared. I didn’t recognize myself—but I wasn’t afraid. I looked competent. Modern. A little mean. I looked free.

⸻

The truth is, the haircut wasn’t just about heartbreak. It was about money.

I’m 43. I live alone in a one-bedroom condo near Rama IX. I work in marketing for a Thai skincare brand and freelance on the side—PowerPoint decks, copywriting, the occasional K-beauty launch campaign. It’s enough to live decently, but not luxuriously. And maintaining that long, glossy hair? It cost me almost ฿4,000 a month, once I factored in salon visits, masks, oils, serums, trims.

Since the cut, I’ve saved almost ฿20,000. That’s a weekend getaway. That’s a good air purifier. That’s four months of health insurance.

And something else shifted too. When I let go of my hair, I started letting go of the emotional labor I’d been performing for everyone else. I stopped apologizing for eating lunch alone at work. I started saying no to unpaid “collabs.” I even raised my freelance rates—twice.

I’m not the only one.

In Thailand, beauty is often seen as duty. Women are expected to be polished, sweet, thin, with smooth skin and black, shiny hair. But something’s changing. I see it in my friends, my cousins, even the college interns at my office. We’re experimenting with buzz cuts, silver streaks, box braids. Some of us are going bare-faced to 7-Eleven. Some of us are choosing self-care that doesn’t come in a pink jar.

It’s not rebellion exactly. It’s recalibration.

I read recently that the global “lipstick index” is being replaced by the “haircut index”—a way of measuring emotional shifts by how drastically women are changing their hair. In Korea, salons saw a spike in dramatic cuts after tech layoffs. In Japan, single women in their 40s are reshaping the beauty market. And in Bangkok? We’re quietly rewriting the rules.

⸻

The man I broke up with? He hasn’t called. But that’s fine. I don’t want to go back to who I was with him—soft-spoken, low-maintenance, long-haired and quietly resentful.

These days, my mornings are faster. I towel dry, tousle, and go. My neck feels cool in the heat. My grab driver once said, “Sister, your hair looks like a CEO.”

I laughed. But inside, I stood a little taller.

⸻

This isn’t a story about beauty. Not really. It’s about the quiet revolution happening in mirrors and bathrooms across Asia. About the way a woman can change her life—one snip at a time.

I’m still the same person underneath. But now, when I walk down Sukhumvit with my sunglasses on and my little black bob bouncing behind me, I don’t feel like I’m performing womanhood. I feel like I’m living it, finally, on my terms.

And yes, I still take mirror selfies. But now, they’re just for me.

By Saowaluk R.