We are rental scum. Our rights are trampled. We are a generation of people being SHAFTED. And I am sick of it.

I have a 27 year rental career. In that time, I’ve lived in 14 rental houses or units in two States of Australia, in cities and rural locations.

I’ve dressed up to make a good impression and joined with large groups of other prospective tenants to view a property. I’ve competed hard to ensure that I get the property over others, because that’s how it works. I’ve also lost out in bidding wars when an agent accepts offers of higher rent, even though this is illegal.

I’ve photocopied endless numbers of identification documents, imposed on friends and colleagues to be referees and waited with a sick stomach to hear if I’ve been successful in securing a house. I’ve been at risk of homelessness if the timing between leaving one property and securing another doesn’t come off right.

I’ve spent thousands in double rent and borrowed the same to come up with Bond because agents won’t transfer bonds even though there is a system set up to do this.

I’ve schmoozed, crawled and on a few occasions, begged a real estate agent to have my basic rights as a tenant upheld.

I’ve had the back yards of two houses I’ve rented bulldozed while I’ve lived there. I’ve had owners who turn up again and again without giving the proper notice and I’ve given them entry to the premises to keep them on side. I’ve had windows that won’t open or close, doors that don’t function and lived without a stove for weeks waiting for repairs.

I’ve lived through chronic mould, holes and leaks in roofs, dead animals trapped in walls, showers that don’t work, and scores of other problems that don’t get resolved. I’ve been told I must live through roof replacements, wall replacements and had countless other infringements on my rights to exclusive use of the property. I’ve spent many nights after moving day on my hands and knees scrubbing walls and floors to make sure I get my bond back.

In 27 years, I’ve never breeched an owner or real estate and I’ve always gotten my Bond back in full. I’ve worked hard to be a good tenant. Despite an excellent income, solid professional and personal references and no history of any rental mishaps, my family and I are still shafted. Despite legislation and support lines and dispute processes, here I am waiting again, in another mould riddled house with a section of back fence missing and a gutter with sharp rusted bits falling off randomly.

And here I am again waiting for agents to respond to emails, to return calls, to follow up on offers made by an owner and later rescinded and all the while I am paying a huge chunk of my income for the privilege.

I have grounds to breach this real estate and owner. But they hold all the power. If I breach, they can shaft me when I finally leave. They can make it hard to get another rental property by bad mouthing me to future agents or putting my name on the dreaded Rental baddies database, meaning I’ll never get another lease again.

Where has being a model tenant for nearly three decades got me? Nowhere good.

In that time, I’ve had just one real estate agent that I would count as someone who advocated for tenants. I felt like crying the day she left to work somewhere else because I knew the odds were that the next one would likely be mean. The overwhelming majority of agents represent the needs of the owner and think little about the people paying that owner’s mortgage.

Legislation hasn’t helped the growing number of people who spend their lifetimes renting. It doesn’t make us feel safe or confident. It doesn’t protect us from the many ways that agents and owners can shaft us.

Here I am after 27 years of renting, spending days feeling sick, waiting to hear from another agent so that I can determine whether $500 rent a week will buy me decent living conditions and some respect. I suspect that my email pleas for a speedy response and attempts to explain the discomfort of not knowing where my family will live in the near future are met with annoyance and contempt. I suspect they move about their day oblivious to the stomach cramps that are beginning to bite as stress takes a firm hold of my life.

I don’t want to be nice anymore. Nice hasn’t gotten me anywhere. Nice got me shafted.

As our country’s percentage of people who will spent their lives renting grows, something needs to be done about the huge power imbalance between those who own (often as a result of having family help them with a first deposit) and those that can’t.

We are rental scum. Our rights are trampled. We are a generation of people being shafted. And I am sick of taking it.





Cut off at the knees



A few Sunday’s back, after a long and interesting walk, the type where you find yourself free enough of troubles to ponder a thing or two, I found myself thinking about shaving my hair off. Again. This wasn’t the first time in my life I’d opted to a dramatic hair decision, having done so twice before.. Three times if you count the dreadlocks. Hang on, four, if we consider the rebel patch. And I suppose that count only applies to my adult hair adventures.

The point is, I’m not known for making regular-woman kind of decisions about my hair. Most people that know something of me know this by now. Even strangers in my suburb who have absentmindedly noticed me over the years, if they’ve noticed me at all, would probably know not to rely too much on my appearance remaining entrenched.

So, why is it that people freak out when I do it? I think maybe there might be the surprise element, in that I don’t generally discuss and explore the decision with a perky group of girlfriends before hand and I don’t book appointments at hair salons and tell people when the big day is, actually I don’t know myself until it takes my fancy and I find myself in front of the mirror with the scissors and dustpan.

Maybe the surprise element throws people a little, and sure, why not express your surprise, but some of the reactions I’ve gotten over the years of my hair cutting antics are downright weird and I can’t say I haven’t enjoyed observing them and pondering what they might mean.

Actually, I’d say I’ve had a thoroughly empowering time thinking over the whole thing. It’s seems to be something about the fact that my hair was long and an interesting colour and had some curls in it. And although this is true, it was also fundamentally annoying. For one thing, it took an awful lot of maintenance. It took so much attention, not just to maintain it, but to consider it. Time sucking distractions that ultimately begin to change your image of who you are.

You see, a women’s hair in some odd way, has the power to afford her or deny her acceptance by other human beings. I realise that’s a big statement, but honestly, if you walk around with very long hair for any amount of time, you’ll experience a level of acceptance, based purely on your image as a reliable personification of brand feminine. It’s pervasive.

Before too long, your hair becomes a fashion accessory and although I know not too many women think this is necessarily a bad thing, I’m of the bent that I have better things, more satisfying things to be doing with my time than accessorising.

Thus, the time had come to be done with all the petty annoyances such as washing and styling, and on a truer level to face the world without the disguise that my hair had become. To the bathroom. With the clippers. Now.

The moment itself is always a bit of an anti-climax. It’s the decision that feels uninhibiting. Like pulling yourself back from a side path in your life that if left unchecked, could become awfully hard to get out of. Knowing in advance that the experience is going to be something of a challenge, that your movement through the world will be altered and therefore felt in a slightly different way.

Once you’ve made the decision though, and you’ve got the hair in your hand, scissors poised, it’s pretty much pure fun.  Many a childhood Barbie could attest to my love of cutting hair, introduced to me by my sister, another frequent lock cutter. This same sister was so devlishly drawn to chopping hair that she took great chuncks out of my other sister’s hair, an act which was certainly cruel, but by the look on her face, also satisfying. Her sheer delight at the incident willed me on to cut the hair off my most prized possession, my Bionic Woman doll, which due to the rather manly physique of the doll, ended up looking like a boy. This turned out to be fortuitous, as due to my mother’s unexpressed belief that providing her three daughters with male dolls was somehow morally inappropriate, I had a harem’s worth of Barbie dolls, but no prince.

Anyway, the point is, I had an early history of experience in the joy of changing an appearance, which often led to re-considering just who this plastic creature in front of you was that used to be the Bionic Woman. Her ‘personality’ was again up for grabs. No one else could tell me what she was supposed to look like or which mould she was supposed to fit into. Those decisions were mine to make over.

So, the hair came off without much fanfare. Using the clippers was another challenge, but I ended up doing a reasonable job. I had started the day with long, golden, curls almost to my waist, and ended with a smooth, crystal clear number three shave.

Given that I hadn’t planned to do it when I woke up in the morning, I did expect some level of shock from those around me and I suppose also from myself. My husband’s jaw dropped, not because of the haircut but because he didn’t think I’d ever do it again. It’s helpful that this look on women seems to be his favourite, at least if you can assume that the female characters he designs in his Xbox games all end up having golden coloured shaved heads. His reaction last time, when I shaved a head of long dreadlocks was pure enchantment. He drew pictures of me.

So we can rule out having to consider whether the person who found us attractive before might not anymore and that’s not something to understate. I would have perhaps needed a whole lot more courage to take the decision to shave my head if I knew that a consequence might be that my favourite human found me repulsive or hey, even less attractive as a result. Then again, maybe not. Because the thing is, I quite like it. I like the way it feels when I run water over it and I like that I can feel the breeze on my scalp. I feel somehow grander, maybe even a little shinier. But from past experiences, I also know it invites a shadow side, one of self-questioning and fear of rejection and exposure. The last two times I did this, I felt these things strongly. Even unpleasantly, for a time.

I waited for the reaction that had come both times before, from within me, but it never seriously took hold.  I still like it. Freed from most of the self-doubts, I’ve been able to observe the reactions from others without getting too emotionally side tracked in them.

What was really weird, and the story I really want to ponder, concerns the way people reacted and the struggle that some of them seemed to go through as a result. . Of both genders, although I think maybe for different reasons. And whilst I can by no means generalise, I did notice that a significant number of men who react seem to be mostly confused.

This can sometimes lead them to make assumptions about my sexuality. And although guys dig girl on girl porn, they still like those girls to look super feminine and frankly, I was just a little too far outside the model of ‘lesbian’ that most of these men could embrace. Other men screen me out. I’m no longer there. At least in terms of being a creature of the opposite gender worthy of some sort of extra attention.

This has had the surprising effect of freeing me from attracting their gaze. All women know that thing we do sometimes where we go a little blank in the eyes, tilt our gazes down just slightly and do our darnedest not to attract any male attention. This is a technique we will sometimes employ when we don’t want attention of a certain kind. If you don’t think you do it, watch next time you’re out walking alone and you come upon a man. An exception of course is if you really want to engage the man and then you probably wouldn’t be staring at the pavement.

The point here is that woman sometimes don’t have the choice over who ogles them and who doesn’t, and in my experience, having long hair attracted more of the kind of attention that I’d just rather not have. When I walk now, I just hold my shaved head up high, reasonably certain that I’ll be free of drawing the gaze of most men.

There is of course another reaction from a very small subset of men, mostly those you read sci-fi and like computer games and strong women, but these men are mostly confined to comic book shops and their lounge rooms, and even in the wild, they don’t tend to be ogglers anyway. I’ve become invisible to the people I would most like to be invisible from and this makes me pretty content.

Women have trouble with it for different reasons, I think. Not all of them, and hearteningly not any of the friends that know me well, but some do. My sister freaked. She was grieving for my hair. At first I found it amusing and I kind of thought she was joking, but no, she was upset. She kept repeating how pretty it had been. I don’t disagree with her, but housing your sense of beauty in your hair feels a little wrong for me.

I know how this can slowly happen though, your sense of your identity being constructed like a uniform around you. It was this very attachment to my hair that had been a big factor in the decision to get rid of it. Only my escaping this situation by a drastic haircut was a nightmare scenario to her. I think my sister thought I was hurting myself. She said she couldn’t think of why I would do it and I think that maybe she can’t. She was so startlingly invested in my hair that I realised something else must be going on here.

My sister’s reaction was not the only one to alert me to the way that we as women privilege the role that our hair plays in our identity. We understand on some level that a hairstyle which falls between the accepted boundaries of femininity gives us social currency. So to chop it all off seems like social suicide. Why would you do this to yourself, they wonder? Why would you self-harm?  Because this is clearly what they imagine I have done. The only way they can make any sense of it at all is to come to the conclusion that I must loathe myself in some way. It’s as though I’ve cut my skin and not just my hair.

I can understand what makes them think this way. By ten years old, a girl has already learnt how to package themselves as appealing or at least how to avoid the pitfalls of being unacceptable.  It’s tantalising being accepted. And it’s just plain easier. Having acceptable hair and for that matter dress style allows you to fly under the radar. People serving you in shops have a neutral attitude to you and this makes the whole exchange very pleasant. Other parents at your kid’s school accept you as a parent, as opposed to not quite being sure that you have the uniform right and maybe being a little suspicious about whether little Jane should really be allowed to come play with your kid at your house.

And I won’t lie and say that the acceptance by men wasn’t somehow beneficial to me. They would chat with me at those times when appropriate social chit chat was required, instead of looking the other way as I walked by (an example provided by the owners of the gym that I attend, who overnight, seemed to forget who I was).

Some people of both genders seem to think I’m sick. With cancer. They think that the only reason a woman would be faced with such a situation must be because of chemotherapy. These folk take long arcs around me, smiling sorrowful and poignantly should our eyes meet. Like they understand, but please would I put a headscarf on so they wouldn’t be confronted with my decay? It must really suck to lose your hair to cancer and have to deal with those reactions.

Other women delight in it. They whisper to me that they’ve always wanted to shave their hair off, but never felt brave enough. They tell me they are worried that the shape of their head is displeasing or maybe it’s their job, but it’s just too risky. A few remember when they too had made a similar risk with their hair and what they had learnt. Grannies still look a little disapprovingly, but some of them have blue hair, so that’s ok.

My 13 year old daughter thought it was cool. She started sending me email images of famous movie stars who had shaved their head and stuck up for me when others disapproved. She made my picture with my new hair cut the screen saver on her mobile and she joked that at least I didn’t have to worry about what the girls at school would say. I told her I do, they’re just older now.

This time, I haven’t been much bothered by all these shenanigans. Maybe it’s because as I get older I care less for other’s reactions. Maybe over the years I’ve picked up some courage to resist other’s expectations of me. I’m not sure. But I do know that by shaving my head again, I have escaped from something treacherous to my self and I think just in time.

By taking out my clippers again and ridding myself of my hair, I know again that the world is not what it seems. Like sci-fi folklore, it might just be true that we are in a matrix, controlled by our own insecurities, fostered on us by a society hell bent on persuading us to package ourselves within the tight margins of acceptability and familiarity. It’s one path to follow, but it’s not a very satisfying one and I know that the costs are high. I don’t know exactly what makes me resist this path, but I’m certain that the motivation is a good one, a right one. It’s not easy, but it’s character building and building character seems like a good enough thing to spend a lifetime doing.