My hair falls out
Tegan Parrish
I am staring at seven large portraits on the wall. The frames are placed adjacently along three walls. The photographs distort my understanding of space. They push back against the idea of individuality and revel in solidarity. In sisterhood. They mirror the female Kurdish fighters preparing for battle. I feel a presence in this moment. A large, ominous, overarching shadow ready to consume me. The room is lonely, but the light from the frames echoes on the floor illuminating my way to this work. I am pulled towards it. The words fall out.
Hair
Black and white
Tangling, pulling, commanding
In turn we lose
Rebel
What does this mean? What are they trying to tell me?
*
Hair
Tied up taut,
pattern kept,
tightly wrapped
Be neat, be good,
He says it once,
Plaited pride,
oiled submission
Down the back,
He combs it flat.
Knot me again,
A thought to defy,
This woman’s will
Don’t pull, don’t try,
Stay pretty and pure
No loose ends to
With mouth so dry,
Too thick to speak,
Waiting here it
The mirror exposes
Held on together by
A veil hides her
Stiff again,
beauty kneels to
One strand slips
A question curls
folded clean,
a silence laid
up in routine.
endure the storm
twice, forever.
carved into form.
hidden by poise.
down rigid spine.
The brush destroys.
strand by strand,
twisted with doubt.
is subdued by hand.
don’t fray the braid.
no rage to show
reveal I’m unafraid.
and hair so thick.
too strong to snip.
makes me sick.
reflections thin,
precious touch.
rebel’s grin.
held again,
silent shame.
a secret strain.
beneath the pain.
Braided
Controlled
Confined beauty
She’s observed shrewdly
Controlled, Braided
Though in pain
She’s not
Vain
*
Hoda Afshar’s photographic collection, In Turn, may not solely appear as a representation of feminine beauty and expectations but remains a silent battleground for all women. A universal experience wrapped in cultural and political symbolism of hair that defies the legacy of control—cutting, covering, taming, binding. These photographed subjects are not just held by the lens of the camera, but age-old systems that determine womanhood in terms of composure, obedience, and concealment. The very act of braiding hair—wrapping, twisting, coiling—reveals echoes of the male-dominant structures intended on molding their self-expression and identities without consent.
In this space, hair is paradoxical. Yes, it is profoundly personal and ultimately biologically female in nature. So, why is it a social code enforced by society? Whether through law, societal demand, or domestic command, Afshar’s framing position holds this symbol of imprisonment as masked by adornment.
These plaits, while precise and controlled, uphold restriction. A traditional association with virtue and command ensures Afshar’s work to be grounds for subjugation. Whether it be Virginia’s locked door, or Afshar’s braided hair, they all hold secrets: creativity subdued, autonomy forgotten, and voices lost in the silence.
And so, the woman is unable to express herself. Is there the possibility to resist? Does it all end in despair?
The spark of rebellion is exposed even in the neatest of settings—the few strands out of place. Viewers are witnesses to the struggle, the quiet feelings. Their isolation is not overshadowed by their agency. Afshar invites us to observe the muted resistance in the stillness. I find myself pulled by the space—not just its aesthetics, but the emotional weight that it holds. The shadows hold history. It is the male dominated views carved into every expectation of what a woman should be. This hair is now the rope, but also perhaps the thread intended to unravel it.
*
not here
Hello,
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Black and white
I am sat on the floor of a xxxxx room.
There are no corners. No place to rest from the ceiling that bleeds into the floor.
Only the sound of my own soul.
There’s a movement.
It echoes.
Out of place. The flap of white wings.
Brushing the air with intentional fear.
No thought of escape. At least, not yet.
It flutters by a crack in the wall.
I follow but the walls do not move.
I speak to it. I ask for help.
It doesn’t speak back.
In its eyes, too human-like eyes,
too understanding—please—
it knows the wall is not the end.
It understands that I am waiting for someone to find me.
But the air tastes like chalk.
My fingertips are greying.
I draw a door on the wall and imagine an opening.
The dove watches.
The room grows darker. It’s black.
But the speck of white remains.
I know it carries the memories on its back. On its wings as it flies.
It says: “You were never the prisoner”.
And so, I stay.
I am released from the pain.
Redacted footnotes:
White sound
< echoes White fear
(At least not yet) Crack
Help Please find me. But an opening.
It’s black
I know…
--------------------You were never the prisoner -----------
*
There is an interesting interplay of light and shadow in Afshar’s work. The black and white is a haunting representation of the female experience. They aren’t fully imprisoned, yet they are not entirely free either. The dove plays an integral role as a traditional symbol of peace, hope, and purity. But here, it can also be viewed as a figure of yearning. In this expansive, yet sparse landscape, Afshar’s subjects remain contained and observed, but not unheard.
There is a physical and psychic isolation here. A feeling of being watched and forgotten. Voiceless and decorative. Visible and delicate. The interplay of black and white reflects the binary struggle imposed on women: pure or whore, covered or exposed, obedient or be punished. Here, there is no grey.
In this instance, the dove is necessary. The white of its feathers accentuates the darkness of their clothes, even the weight of their gaze. It sparks movement and hope. So, while the subjects are still, the bird seeks flight. It seeks the freedom that still exists somewhere. These women are stuck in the room, but can picture the escape; unable to fly, but can see those who can.
The silencing of women’s voices permeates the work and its message. Like the women being forced to cover up and present as unreadable to the masses, so too are the parts of the story that remain missing and censored. Their words are withheld, and the rigidness of what is visible and what should remain hidden, is not only structural, but universal.
The resolution is not given. The woman cannot be freed by the dove, but it gives hope for a world afar. A radical gesture is not a means for escape, but the prospect of it. So yes, there is a binary struggle is evident, yet I can observe a collective action. They are not confined by the black and white world, but stare into the distance - like the dove - at a place where the colours blend.
*
TANGLING PULLING COMMANDING
She holds her head firm. But she is on a leash.
She wants to step forward, but the chain resists.
Somewhere a name is called, but not her own.
A voice cracks —
the leash tightens.
Tangled threads on skin marks the lasting memories.
She is trying. But she is lost.
And so, she closes her eyes.
Every pull wounds her spine.
Every wrench is a command.
She does not break. She is asked to bow.
She is posed
placed
composed
restrained
In the reflection are others. Leaning together in quiet support.
She cannot reach them.
But the others almost do.
Being told to stand still, one sways quietly.
Hair tucked tightly.
Head held firmly.
They do not whisper. They do not beg.
She stays.
But she does not belong.
*
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