The politics of hair

King Gojong in 1883-84. Robert Neff Collection

By Robert Neff

A young Korean man of the upper class, circa 1900s. Courtesy of Diane Nars

In the past, a Korean boy only became a man after he was married and his hair was put up in a top-knot (sangtu). Age had little to do with the road to manhood ― only the top-knot mattered. According to Lillias Underwood, an early American missionary in Korea:

"No matter how old one is, without a top-knot he is never considered a man, addressed with high endings, or treated with respect. After assuming the top-knot, no matter how young, he is invested with the dignities and duties of a man of the family, takes his share in making the offerings and prayers at the ancestral shrines, and is recognized by his ancestors' spirits as one of the family who is to do them honor, and whom they are to protect and bless."

It is thus, unsurprisingly, that the top-knot ― on at least one occasion ― became a political tool to emasculate the Korean government.

At about an hour before midnight on December 30, 1895, King Gojong became one of the first victims of reforms that were to take place on Jan. 1. The most troubling of these reforms was the edict that all Korean men were to have their top-knots removed.

Before a small audience of Korean and Japanese officials, a Japanese barber (no Korean could be found willing to undertake such a distasteful act) removed the king's top-knot. Despite the audience having been warned that any outburst of protest would be dealt with severely (fatally), many began to weep and protest, but their efforts were in vain.

Next to lose their coveted top-knots were the crown prince and Daewongun (the king's father). According to Sally Sill, the American ambassador's wife, "The old [Daewongun] felt so bad and considered it such a disgrace that he had a kind of a fit and had a hemorrhage from the nose in consequence."

The Korean embassy to the United States circa 1890s. Courtesy of Diane Nars

Martha Huntly described the audience as holding "all the horror of a public castration" and Fred Harrington claimed the shearing of the top-knot was a "national humiliation far more real than that brought on by the queen's assassination."

After the royal family, government officials, soldiers and police had their prized top-knots removed ― no one was exempt. According to Isabella Bird Bishop, an English woman traveling in Korea at the time, "Many men who [normally] prized the honor of entering the Palace gates at the New Year feigned illness, but were sent for and denuded of their hair."

Even the people on the street had their hair forcibly removed by the police ― and not all of them had scissors. In a letter home, Sill wrote:

"Some of the poor people were seized in the street by the police and had their top-knots hacked off with a sword."

Korean firewood merchants circa 1890-1900s. Courtesy of Diane Nars

According to Huntley, "Some of those who had been forcibly shorn were seen walking about the streets, dazed and wailing, holding their cut hair in their arms as if it were a dead child."

Seoul residents took on a fatalistic view of the situation. Underwood wrote, "Sullen angry faces were seen everywhere, sounds of wailing and woe were heard continually in every house, for the women took it even harder than the men."

An Anglican Sister added: "The boys are having their hair put up in top-knots for the night at any rate, so that in the future they may be able to say they once did wear a top-knot (a top-knot you know is a sign of manhood)."

While Seoul residents may have grudgingly accepted the loss of their top-knots, people outside the city gates refused to part with theirs. As a result, merchants and porters refused to enter the city with their much-needed loads of rice and wood. As the weather worsened and the supplies of wood and rice dwindled, the prices of these commodities soared substantially.

After about two weeks, the Korean government, "rather than have the citizens [of Seoul] freeze or starve," issued another edict proclaiming that haircutting was no longer compulsory.

But for the Koreans whose locks were shorn, this new edict created more problems because they were unable to venture beyond the outskirts of the city for fear of being attacked by the rural population. Those who had no choice but to travel sometimes resorted to imaginative excuses ― they claimed their hair had been hacked off by ghosts or goblins while wandering the darkened streets of Seoul.

This was not the only time there were hair reforms in Korea. In 1907, following another decree for short hair, the Korea Daily News reported:

"It is said that the Koreans who have had their hair cut are having a very bad time in the country. The moment they are seen by any of the volunteers they are seized and an explanation demanded as to why they cut off the top-knot. If they can prove that they are either ex-soldiers or students they are released, but if not, they are usually killed."

In the 1970s, long-haired students were often stopped by the police and, if they were lucky, were warned to get a haircut. The unlucky ones received a haircut from the police who happily mauled the students' hair with dull scissors while cursing them for not conforming to society.

Recently, facial hair has also played a part in the politics of diplomacy in Seoul ― that story, however, can be read elsewhere in the newspaper.

Robert Neff is a historian and columnist for The Korea Times. He can be reached at robertneff103@gmail.com.