I have a love/hate relationship with my hair. Who doesn’t really? I mean, I suppose it’s possible that there are people who either love OR hate their hair, but somehow I can’t really picture these people. I mean, unless your hair is absolutely perfect or completely dreadful, I think most of us have that one thing we love about it and that other one thing we hate about it, and everything else is more or less, I don’t know, eh.
For me, I love the color of my hair, to the point of frustrating my sister by refusing to dye it to cover up the few blatantly gray hairs popping out of the top of my scalp. In fact, I kind of even love them. They’re more silvery than gray. My hair, my God given hair color, is brown, with blonde highlights. Not to toot my own horn, but it’s a quite nice shade of brown. It’s rich, and just right.
And it’s smooth.
That being said, it does nothing. Absolutely nothing. Not a damn thing I ever want it to do does it actually do. It doesn’t take most product. Extra Super Might-as-well-be-cement Hair Spray? Works for about two minutes before everything falls flat. Even things like clips and bobby pins won’t stay in. When my hair is just the right length, I can wear headbands, and wear them I do. The bigger or fancier the better. Seriously, I have quite the collection.
Unfortunately for me, my hair had not been short for quite some time. In fact, until Friday, I had not had a haircut (let alone all of them) for over three years. I couldn’t decide what to do so I did nothing. I let it grow, and grow, and grow until it was as long as it had been in college, which was, despite what the Husband says, entirely too long. To make matters worse, it was thin, thinner than usual thanks to having had Tolkien in December. Those post-pregnancy hormones have never helped my hair, and this time was no different. I did hit a sort of sweet spot over the summer, where my hair was long enough to put it up into a top knot bun and with my shaggy bangs it looked cute, even almost chic. But that only lasted for a couple of months.
On Friday, I had no intention of cutting my hair. Honestly. I went to the salon to have my niece do something with it because I was going out. In a moment of either desperation or inspiration or some odd combination of both, I told her to go ahead and take it all off.
If you’ve ever had long, and I do mean bordering on ridiculously long, Crystal Gale long, hair, then you’ll know how it felt, that first snip of the scissors. Liberating. Terrifying for a moment, but mostly liberating.
I keep reaching up to feel where it ends. All of a sudden my hair is no longer as long as my arms, and it feels amazing.
And to top it all off? I think it looks amazing too.
I seriously feel like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders, literally and figuratively. Going from mostly hating my hair lately to absolutely loving it it such a change that it’s almost hard to describe. I feel better, happier, less stressed, because I know that no matter what else happens in any given day, at least my hair will look good. It sounds silly and trivial, and it is, a bit, but given that throughout history we have considered a woman’s hair to be her crowning glory, how trivial is it really?