By Odbayar Dorj
Mongolians hold a special ceremony called the “haircut celebration” for young children, but not everyone is invited to this event. Especially not someone like me, who has gone through a divorce.
I had been meaning to write about this for a while, and now, nine months later, I finally find myself sitting in front of my computer, ready to share my thoughts. After coming to Japan as a student for the second time, I have had the opportunity to take many interesting classes. Among them, the most captivating one was Kamata-sensei’s English Language Cultural Class. Every week, the professor selected a story for us to read before class, and during the lessons, we would discuss our favorite parts and share our thoughts. Sometimes, the professor would ask thought-provoking questions, sparking lively discussions. This class quickly became one of my favorites, something I eagerly looked forward to each week.
We primarily read short stories written by foreign authors living in America. I was amazed by how much emotion, thought, and complexity could be packed into such short narratives. The professor’s careful selection of stories made me admire her even more.
One of the stories we read was Kyoko Mori’s Yellow Mittens and Early Violets. During our class discussion, we talked about cultural differences across countries. There were only four students in our class—one from Morocco, one from Mongolia (me), one from the Philippines, and one from Japan—plus our American professor. This small group allowed us to exchange ideas freely and truly listen to one another. It was fascinating to see how five people from five different cultural backgrounds could read the same story but interpret it in completely different ways.
During this discussion, I shared a personal story about Mongolian traditions, which I now want to write about here.
For Mongolians, hair holds deep symbolic meaning. For instance, women traditionally do not leave their hair loose; it is always braided. Only those in mourning let their hair down. Similarly, if a child’s hair is left uncombed and tangled, it is believed to shorten their lifespan and diminish their fortune.
One of Mongolia’s most significant traditions related to hair is the sevleg urgeh (first haircut) ceremony. Since ancient times, Mongolians have referred to a young child’s untouched hair as sevleg or daakhi, showing deep respect for it. The first haircut is performed with great care, wishing the child a long, prosperous life.
Traditionally, a girl’s hair is cut in mid-summer, guided by the call of the cuckoo, while a boy’s hair is cut in mid-autumn, following the sound of the stag. Families invite relatives and friends to participate in the ceremony. The ritual is conducted when boys reach an odd-numbered age (for example, 3, 5) and girls reach an even-numbered age (for example, 2, 4). This belief stems from the Mongolian spiritual concepts of arga (odd numbers, representing action) and bileg (even numbers, representing wisdom).
The ceremony begins with an elder—typically the most senior and respected person present—touching the child’s hair with a wooden knife before using scissors to snip the first lock. The elder then dips the wooden knife into a cup of milk, allowing a drop to fall onto the scissors. This ritual ensures that the blade does not “harm” the child, symbolically purifying the act. The child’s father carves the wooden knife himself, while the mother sews the child’s traditional deel (Mongolian robe) for the occasion.
Guests take turns cutting a small lock of hair, offering blessings as they do so. The cut hair is respectfully wrapped in a ceremonial scarf (khadag) and preserved. Those invited to touch the child’s hair are carefully chosen; they must be seen as virtuous, fortunate, and stable figures.
I, however, do not belong in this category.
I became a mother at nineteen, and although my daughter’s father and I once dreamed of a future together, our paths eventually diverged. In Mongolian culture, divorced individuals are not invited to participate in a child’s haircut ceremony. There is a belief that if someone like me were to touch a child’s hair, the child might also face a broken marriage in the future. This tradition, deeply rooted in the idea that a person’s energy influences a child’s life, means that people like me are excluded.
At first, it hurt.
Now, I have grown used to it. Though I have come to accept this tradition, I still wonder—should cultural heritage come at the cost of human connection? Perhaps the true essence of tradition is not just in preserving rituals, but in ensuring that no one is made to feel like an outsider in their own culture.
I sometimes wonder—have we become so devoted to tradition that we have forgotten the importance of human compassion?
This was the story I shared in class—the story of why I am not allowed to take part in one of my own culture’s most sacred ceremonies.
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Odbayar Dorj is an international student from Mongolia currently studying in Japan. She reflects on cultural traditions, personal experiences, and the intersection of human connection and societal norms in her writing.
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