Every once in a while, it’s realized that one must have a “Come to Jesus” meeting with herself. It can be for a single or multitude of reasons, but waking yourself up to the reality of a situation is the prudent thing to do. And so, late the other night in front of the bathroom mirror, I decided it had to come off.
I have been growing out the same accidental shag I got after my trip to Ireland. Yes. It’s been going on that long. A couple of month’s ago, I actually whipped out my driver’s license to show my new hair stylist what I meant when I said that I was sick of having the same haircut. “That photo,” I told her, “was taken in 2005.” I wanted to make it clear that I was trying to let my hair grow. I did not want layers. I didn’t want the faux bangs to be there anymore. My singular goal came in two words: One Length.
“Oh, your hair was so long,” the dental hygienist said when she caught a glimpse of my previous license photo that was attached to my record file. Even I had forgotten how long it had been, cascading over my shoulders, down my back. Sigh. I missed my mane. One would have thought it would have been that long again by now, but no. Sadly, no.
Later that night, while I was doing a DIY facial, I took a good look at my tresses. I realized, like it or not, there was only one thing to do. I wiped off my masque and pinned back my hair, measuring the length that I could live with.
“You hair is getting so long,” my hairstylist smiled as I pulled my locks out of the elastic tie, letting it drop. It was, I thought, as she played with it, pulling it forward and down. “We are cutting it off,” I told her. Her eyes went wide. Who could blame her for being confused? After my assertions two months before, I knew the woman would only take off “just the very ends” for fear of her life. “Really?” she asked. “To here,” I said and pointed to the freckle on my neck.
Four inches later, almost all of my layers were gone and I was bobbing. This isn’t my first blunt cut. I’ve worn it before. But it is a bit of a high-maintenance style for me. I have two wicked cowlicks at the nape of my neck that I have to fight with a round brush and blow-dryer. If I let it air-dry (which I love to do on lazy days), my hair goes wild rather than into the loose waves it would when long. And, sadly, not sexy-wild. More like scary clown wild. If I don’t take the flat iron to it, it gets a little soccer-mom. Ugh. But, it is long enough to go back into a ponytail for the gym, or a French twist when in a pinch. And I know it will grow. Hopefully a lot faster than the last haircut I had.
I have been growing out the same accidental shag I got after my trip to Ireland. Yes. It’s been going on that long. A couple of month’s ago, I actually whipped out my driver’s license to show my new hair stylist what I meant when I said that I was sick of having the same haircut. “That photo,” I told her, “was taken in 2005.” I wanted to make it clear that I was trying to let my hair grow. I did not want layers. I didn’t want the faux bangs to be there anymore. My singular goal came in two words: One Length.
“Oh, your hair was so long,” the dental hygienist said when she caught a glimpse of my previous license photo that was attached to my record file. Even I had forgotten how long it had been, cascading over my shoulders, down my back. Sigh. I missed my mane. One would have thought it would have been that long again by now, but no. Sadly, no.
Later that night, while I was doing a DIY facial, I took a good look at my tresses. I realized, like it or not, there was only one thing to do. I wiped off my masque and pinned back my hair, measuring the length that I could live with.
“You hair is getting so long,” my hairstylist smiled as I pulled my locks out of the elastic tie, letting it drop. It was, I thought, as she played with it, pulling it forward and down. “We are cutting it off,” I told her. Her eyes went wide. Who could blame her for being confused? After my assertions two months before, I knew the woman would only take off “just the very ends” for fear of her life. “Really?” she asked. “To here,” I said and pointed to the freckle on my neck.
Four inches later, almost all of my layers were gone and I was bobbing. This isn’t my first blunt cut. I’ve worn it before. But it is a bit of a high-maintenance style for me. I have two wicked cowlicks at the nape of my neck that I have to fight with a round brush and blow-dryer. If I let it air-dry (which I love to do on lazy days), my hair goes wild rather than into the loose waves it would when long. And, sadly, not sexy-wild. More like scary clown wild. If I don’t take the flat iron to it, it gets a little soccer-mom. Ugh. But, it is long enough to go back into a ponytail for the gym, or a French twist when in a pinch. And I know it will grow. Hopefully a lot faster than the last haircut I had.
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