Bernice Bobs Her Hair

The title and opening setting of “Bernice Bobs Her Hair” give an initial sense that it will be a lighthearted, upper-class social drama. However, the story’s references to society’s moral condemnation signal to the reader that much higher stakes are at play.

From the story’s beginning, F. Scott Fitzgerald utilizes juxtaposition and contradiction to create tension, as well as to amuse. In the first party scene, the whimsical is paired with the willful. Dancing couples’ “effortless smiles” (357) contrast with the sharp-eyed supervision of matrons and suitors. This scene also establishes contradictory descriptions of setting. The rich details of the opening, from the play of lights on the lawn to the appearance of the dancers, contrast the brief introductions of later settings, like Marjorie’s home. Similarly, some characters are passingly mentioned, while others have paragraphs of interiority. These contrasts symbolize the varying attitudes and values of different social circles. They also suggest the subjective nature of social acceptance and belonging. Those who are noticed, like Marjorie, develop an air of glittering gaiety, while those who are overlooked or disapproved of, like Bernice, are left out of the social niceties to which they aspire. These contradictions suggest Bernice’s Downfall Through the Temptation of Social Acceptance is inevitable. Different social circles have different expectations, and she cannot satisfy all of them.

Fitzgerald also uses clever combinations in wordplay, especially extended metaphors, to provide insight into the characters. Early in the story, Marjorie asks Warren to dance with Bernice so that her reputation will not suffer further from suitors openly complaining about her. When Warren assents, Marjorie says, “You’re an angel, and I’m obliged loads” (358). This is followed by: “With a sigh the angel glanced round” (358). The sardonic description of “the angel” signals that while Fitzgerald and his characters value wit, they hold themselves at a distance from taking it too seriously. That refusal to fully engage becomes one of the central issues of character interactions.

Clever but dismissive flirtation is just one of the elements that indicate Detachment in Modern Relationships. Marjorie’s refusal to commit to Warren, and Warren’s abandonment of Bernice as soon as she loses popularity, establish interpersonal distance as a new norm. Though they posture disinterest, Warren’s and Marjorie’s actions are decidedly self-absorbed. Warren will not make himself the subject of social critique, and Marjorie will not sacrifice her independence or question the validity of her opinions. Together, their refusal to change makes them realistic characters and adds to the lack of resolution of the story’s conflicts.

Dialogue also demonstrates the shallow nature of character relationships. For example, at the opening dance, after rescuing Bernice, Warren is bored with their conversation but “decide[s] to try part of his line on her” anyway (360). Bernice’s fumbling response marks her as socially inept; as Warren decides, she’s “a poor conversationalist” (359). However, Bernice’s efforts at social engagement and reflections on why she is being rejected suggest she is interested in connection but is struggling to find a connection that is profound rather than perfunctory. Unfortunately for her, this society has no value for those priorities. Draycott Deyo’s dialogue with Bernice reinforces this idea. He and Bernice share traditional views, but rather than having a meaningful discussion with her, he gives her “some of his ideas on the depravity of modern society” (372). Their exchange conveys a perceived imbalance in moral depth.

Tension between personal motivations and social norms is the basis of Bernice’s conflict and exemplifies the Shifting Feminine Identity in the Early 20th Century. One aspect of shifting feminine identity revolves around physical beauty. Warren and Marjorie both comment that Bernice’s hair and “coloring” are beautiful, even when her dull personality detracts from them. Bernice accepts Marjorie’s insistence that she must adapt if she wants to be popular. One recommendation is a more modern hairstyle: a bob. Ironically, though, the choice to cut her hair leads to both outward judgment and an internal break. Bernice’s ultimate social failure demonstrates how neither personal beauty nor socially approved style is inherently satisfying, however much they’re purported as essential aspects of femininity.

Mannerisms are another area of femininity that Bernice struggles to understand. From the beginning, she and Marjorie are not close friends. Fitzgerald writes that this distance is, in part, because Marjorie “never giggled, was never frightened, [and was] seldom embarrassed” (361). Bernice considers such behaviors “appropriately and blessedly feminine” (361), revealing an expectation of female helplessness that directly contrasts with Marjorie’s confidence. That confidence leads Marjorie to act based on her own desires, despite her awareness that some condemn her.

Though the story does not promote a singular approach to femininity, the concept is undoubtedly at its center. Bernice and Marjorie are the primary protagonist and antagonist, respectively. Warren and other male suitors complicate the conflict between the two women but lack individuality and mainly appear as representatives of certain viewpoints or groups. Though women and femininity are talked about and evaluated based on patriarchal standards, the story’s female characters are complex in a way that authentically mirrors humanity, as their views about femininity are formed by varying and complex influences. Bernice, with her conservative upbringing, sees long hair as an important symbol of a woman’s value, which needs protecting. Sitting in the barber’s chair, it’s all she can do “to keep from clutching her hair with both hands to protect it from the suddenly hostile world” (376). Marjorie, on the other hand, prefers femininity characterized by cheer and wittiness, and eschews traditional gender roles like those seen among women who “just sat round and never said anything” (363). Bernice and Marjorie’s opposing views of femininity fuel the conflict between them.

In the same way that Fitzgerald plays with expectations of how lighthearted this story will be, he plays with perceptions of relatability. While Bernice is unremarkable to begin with, at the end of the story, she makes a surprising choice to cut off Marjorie’s braids and depart in the night. The characters comfortably inhabit social privilege, as evidenced when Marjorie offers to give Bernice her monthly allowance to spend her remaining week in “a very nice hotel” (365), yet the opening dance supervision and later condemnation of Bernice’s haircut indicate that privilege comes at a cost. Marjorie’s outline of social advice to Bernice—the advice around which Fitzgerald originally imagined the story—hints at superficial values and ambiguous morals. Though the story clearly establishes Bernice’s desire for social acceptance, it also invites the reader to consider what it costs her and whether the transformation is worthwhile.