Foray & Reinventing

I recently got about 10 inches of my hair cut off in an act of Sunday morning impulsivity. Going from long hair to lob is a big jump, but unlike some of my other hair decisions, this one seems to be generally well received.Most of the talk surrounding my hair for the past week has consisted of generous compliments from my kind friends. And even though I mostly like my current hair, it still scares me not to have The Curtain™️️ to hide behind. It makes me sweaty when I wonder whether the 70s vibe I’m channelling toes the line of “mom-ish” too precariously. Changing my hair highlights some of my silliest insecurities, but it also presents an opportunity for me to fortify my self esteem, and it reminds me that my look is not the most important place to direct my energies.

This experience nicely complements the time when I was eleven years old and I made my mom take me to the salon, only to get home and furiously snip away at the professionally cultivated hairdo in my poorly lit bathroom. What can I say? I hated those goddamn layers. This rash decision resulted in weeks of my mother’s half-disapproving, half-pitying “tsk”-ing as I walked into the kitchen to grab snacks. My hair looked awful.

Never destined to be a hair dresser or a stylish middle schooler, I endured the awful growing-out stage for a few years, letting the layers all grow out and blend together, until I forgot that I had ever even tried to style short hair. And yet here I am again.

In truth, not a lot has changed. But short hair has taught me one big thing; I cannot live with regret.Cutting my hair is one of those quasi-irreversible decisions I make about my image. It simultaneously imposes a huge dose of self consciousness and anxiety, while demanding that I muster up some confidence and keep going out into the world. And it does this no matter how good or bad the haircut ultimately is. It’s like losing a protective shell. (Yeah, maybe I’m a little too emotional about my hair.) Regardless, now that I’ve cut my hair, finished my semester, and started packing to study in Spain where no one will know me, I think I’ve found a good time to own a “new me.”Maybe I’ll become a spy. Maybe I’ll have a lot of alone time and become a writer whose anonymous work goes viral and is only published under my name post mortem. Maybe I’ll learn to cook and challenge Gordon Ramsey to a lasagna-off that becomes so emotionally intensive, he breaks down and confides in me that one of his guiltiest pleasures is microwave Easy Mac. Maybe I’ll just be me and like it a bit more. Maybe nothing will change at all, but I’ll have a blog at the end of it. Whatever the next few months bring, here’s to fresh follicles and fresh starts.