The hair—which, after all, Alysa Liu invites us to do—is the first thing to notice. It’s hardly the halo of an ice angel. Her dyed-blond and black circlets have a welcome element of scornfulness, a taunting of judgement. The hair says: Figure skating submits young women to continual verdict, assaults their self-esteem over a toe point or pound of weight, but here is someone who will not comply, who has found her own ebullient, levitating, and self-approving form.
Liu takes all the tears in the kiss-and-cry zone—where so many skaters have suffered fierce whispers from unforgiving coaches and devastating appraisals in the form of “judge’s marks”—and dries them. She repudiates an austere, traditional training system that breaks tiny dancers into pieces. At the Milan Cortino games she skated on her own terms to seize America’s first Olympic women’s figure skating gold medal since 2002—and became a new kind of icon, one who eats and wears whatever the hell she wants. “I don’t know how I’m going to deal with it,” she said of the increased attention that was coming her way after her euphoric, spinning mirror-ball free skate to Donna Summer’s version of “MacArthur Park” on Thursday. “Probably wigs. I’m gonna wear some wigs when I go outside.”
Her performance proved that a 20-year-old woman can be strong, feathering, free, warm to her competitors, and salty all at the same time. Cloaked in a dress that looked like it was made of gold coins, and which seemed to give her a jauntiness on the ice, Liu completed a strenuous seven triple jumps. Her effort was all the more extraordinary given that she had retired in 2022 at the age of 16, because she didn’t want to become a sulky, overtrained arthritic with the emotional disposition of burnt toast. “The last time I was skating it was so rough,” she said in a press conference after her gold-medal win, “I genuinely cannot even begin to start on it.”
During her sabbatical from the sport she went skiing, hiked to the Mount Everest base camp, and enrolled at UCLA, where she studied psychology: “side quests,” as she called them in an interview with NBC this week. “It keeps me curious.” Liu returned to skating in late 2024 after two and a half years, with the clear-headed intention to be a performance artist, not a medal-seeking desperado. “No one tells me what to do,” she said of her attitude after her time away.
Who is going to argue with a gold medal? Or with the athleticism she showed in her jumping performance? Coaches around the world will now have a harder time pushing their charges to the breaking point. Four years ago, the world watched aghast as a clutch of young Russian champion skaters, led by the accused 15-year-old doper Kamila Valieva, emotionally disintegrated under the grim-jawed watch of their coach Eteri Tutberidze. Liu’s tremendous exhibition of skill, combined with her carefreeness and her warm embraces of her teammates and competitors, seemed the perfect antidote.
As NBC commentator Tara Lipinski, the 1998 gold medalist, said of Liu, “It’s like she is just playing on the ice, not even performing anymore.” Lipinski added, “She’s figured out how to compete without carrying the weight of it.” According to NBC Olympics figure-skating expert Philip Hersh, Liu has not fallen since the first event of her comeback in September 2024. She has landed 221 jumps without hitting the ice. When she finished her free skate, she mimicked dusting her hands off, as if to say, job done, that was easy—and then hollered above the roaring standing ovation, “That’s what I’m fucking talking about!”
And she did it all with raccoon hair. That’s not an insult; it was her original intention when she went to the hair salon a few years ago, seeking “an optical illusion.” She let her hair grow out, and added one new ring of bleach every year. “I thought, I kind of want to be a tree,” she said in January. The remark was no more or less quirky than her explanation of why her Instagram profile photo is a picture of a bowl of Lucky Charms, with just the pastel marshmallows. “I think it’s super aesthetic,” she said. “And I think it captures kind of my personality, my essence a little bit.”
The audience is only beginning to meet this personality-essence, who seems to have perspective as well as humor and social courage. The gold medal is “a physical object,” she said. “I could just lose it.” What she really sought from her skating, she told a reporter, is “human connection.” She added, “And damn, now I’m connecting with a hella ton of people.” Figure skating, a sport that has historically demanded jewel-box princesses, may yet sour that connection. But for now, bleached, studded, and exuberantly frank is the new fashion.
Alysa Liu’s victory isn’t simply a win for American figure skating; it’s a potential inflection point for the sport itself. Her willingness to step away, to prioritize her well-being, and to return on her own terms challenges the long-held, often damaging, conventions of elite athletic training. The fact that she could achieve this level of success after a self-imposed exile speaks volumes about her talent, but also about the power of agency and a healthy relationship with competition. The impact of her journey will likely be felt for years to come, not just in the training regimens of future skaters, but in the broader conversation surrounding mental health and athlete empowerment.
The narrative surrounding Liu is particularly resonant in the wake of recent controversies within the sport, notably the Valieva doping scandal. Liu’s joy, her apparent lack of pressure, and her genuine connection with her competitors offer a stark contrast to the often-grim atmosphere that has plagued international figure skating. She represents a new model—one where athleticism and artistry are not sacrificed at the altar of relentless pursuit of perfection.
It’s a model that could redefine what it means to be a champion.
