My personality type demands that I analyze a situation from all sides, examining all roles and outcomes of all possible actions. I can be impulsive when making some decisions, but when it comes to the important ones, I tend to take my time: months for semi-important; possibly years for truly life-altering. When the decision is made, I know that I’m ready because I’ve thought of everything about the situation. It is what it is and it will be what I make it, once I decide.
Last week, I did something that might have looked impulsive to someone looking from the outside in, but in reality, it was a long time coming.
I finally cut my hair.
Almost two years to the day since the last time I sat in the dreaded stylist chair, I had about 13 inches chopped off. I hadn’t wanted that much removed, but in the six times I’ve grown out my hair (to donate to cancer charities and to save to make a wig for myself — yes, really), only one managed to cut my hair off in one fell swoop without fucking it up. The conversation usually goes:
“Do you want a bob?”
Me in the mirror after the cut: “Oh, look, I have a bob-like blob that ends just at my neck.”
This bob, though, is super short. The stylist did me a full-on Phoebe Waller-Bridge. I can do an English accent — perhaps I should until it grows in?
I don’t really care, even though it’s much shorter than I intended. My head feeling light is the physical manifestation of a huge weight being taken off my shoulders recently. My neck stopped aching almost immediately, though I do almost give myself whiplash as there’s almost no hair to toss now compared to the heavy couple of feet I used to throw from side to side.
You can tell I’m not a millennial because my selfie game is so sad. The curls in the last picture are manufactured by my handy-dandy Conair doohickey that spins and heats them automatically. Ironically, I was trying to tamper down the natural curl my hair decided to have after being freed from its heavy length or at the very least to get the ends to curl down and under and not flip up circa 1955.
I know in a couple of days it will settle down and in a couple weeks it will be a length I can live with more easily. In the meantime, it takes no time at all for my hair to dry and my head feels light as a feather, a precursor to the way my heart will fully feel in a quick snip of time (more and more every day).
I’ve never believed that hair is everything (the time I swore I wouldn’t go to prom if my hair didn’t turn out notwithstanding). Although I agree with an interview comment I read eons ago from Mr. Lenny Kravitz, that hair holds emotional memory so cutting it off during a time of change is cathartic, generally speaking I’ve always been a firm believer that hair’s not really anything of import, hence my usual long locks and infrequent visits to the stylist.
However, my doppelgänger, Ms. Waller-Bridge, apparently does think hair is everything, so perhaps I shall change my view, at least until my hair grows in…