Men don't always get the ways of women. Could I make more of an obvious statement? No. So, imagine their utter confusion when a chick chops off her locks in order to grow them out.
I know. It only makes sense if you are a woman. However, if you own dangly bits below the belt, perhaps it would bring you a sense of understanding if we called it a "rebuilding year". I believe that's what men refer to it as when their team has a crap season and they remain blindly optimistic that it will be better next year. Well, that's what we girls think when we've had enough of bad haircuts and color and split ends. With a weakened sense of optimism, we whack it all off. Like an abused wood floor, we've got to take it down to its most natural state so we can add to it again, and bring it to its best again.
Or, at least that's what we tell ourselves.
The past month has been a hairy-ed adventure for me. The next person who says, "I almost didn't recognize you," will have to buy my drinks for the night. And, I tend to be thirsty. This tressed-out situation again proves my theory that bangs do more for you than Botox. I've not done the Botox yet, but I've had ample people tell me how much younger I look with this 'do. That could very well be a backhanded compliment, but I'll take it. Trust me, Botox is on my list of things to do. But, if the bangs keep getting me those comments, I'll keep them (and the money I'd be spending on needles; bangs I can cut for free...needle injectors I'll pay top dollar for).
I don't mind my hair being this short, or this straight. I mind that they are both of these things at once. This is of my own doing, of course. There is no one else to blame but the bimbo typing this out. There are certain occasions in which forethought takes a vacay and forgets to put the "Gone Fishin'" sign up to let me know that perhaps now is not the time for me to make a decision that will take a long time to grow out. Maybe I enjoy that frivolous unpredictability about myself. If I do, it only lasts until I have to do my hair.
I just keep repeating that I did this for a reason. Like trading my slightly aging star player so I can get three more young bucks to play. And, as I run my fingers through my very soft, very straight hair, I keep thinking one thing:
When will it be long enough to pull it into a ponytail?