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*sighs in ecstasy*
Aug. 25th, 2007 12:40 pmRegarding the very important matter of My Hair:
I've been growing it out for a year or two now, and for the last six months or so I've been toying with the idea of cutting it all off. Not because it looked particularly bad (because it looked fine), and not because it was particularly hard to deal with (because it wasn't); I could never put my finger on why I wanted it short, exactly, never come up with a good reason for cutting it short. I mean, it's convenient to have hair long enough to get out of your way with rubber bands! It's satisfying to grab your hair and lift your arms up as far as you can and still be holding your hair (I do not know why this is so satisfying, but it really, really is)! And it turns out that when one takes care of one's cinnamon-colored hair, it stays cinnamon-colored, rather than bleaching out to an unflattering apricot color on the ends! And so it kept growing, and I kept looking in the mirror and thinking, I really should get it cut off, and I kept not getting it cut off.
And then this morning I got up and was running errands, and I drove past the place I get my hair cut, and thought, hey, I could use a trim, and went inside to see if my hairdresser was (1) there and (2) accepting walk-ins, and she (1) was and (2) was, and so I got my hair shampooed and then when she asked what I wanted, instead of saying that I wanted a trim, I heard myself saying that I wanted my old short bob back. And as soon as I said it, I knew that it was the right thing to do. And she chopped off enough to ship off to Locks of Love, and shaped it up, and when it was all blown out and styled and she let me put my glasses back on (I can never tell what I'm getting till it's over, because my eyesight's so terrible), I suddenly knew why I kept thinking for those months that I needed to get my hair chopped off. It was because it wasn't me, that person with hair down her back, it was someone else, someone whose hair was kind of nice and who could put it up to get it out of her way. As soon as I saw my familiar face with my familiar hair in the mirror, I went all shivery with delight and recognition. My hairdresser probably thought I was crazy, I was so happy with that haircut.
I'm glad to have me back. Can you tell?
I've been growing it out for a year or two now, and for the last six months or so I've been toying with the idea of cutting it all off. Not because it looked particularly bad (because it looked fine), and not because it was particularly hard to deal with (because it wasn't); I could never put my finger on why I wanted it short, exactly, never come up with a good reason for cutting it short. I mean, it's convenient to have hair long enough to get out of your way with rubber bands! It's satisfying to grab your hair and lift your arms up as far as you can and still be holding your hair (I do not know why this is so satisfying, but it really, really is)! And it turns out that when one takes care of one's cinnamon-colored hair, it stays cinnamon-colored, rather than bleaching out to an unflattering apricot color on the ends! And so it kept growing, and I kept looking in the mirror and thinking, I really should get it cut off, and I kept not getting it cut off.
And then this morning I got up and was running errands, and I drove past the place I get my hair cut, and thought, hey, I could use a trim, and went inside to see if my hairdresser was (1) there and (2) accepting walk-ins, and she (1) was and (2) was, and so I got my hair shampooed and then when she asked what I wanted, instead of saying that I wanted a trim, I heard myself saying that I wanted my old short bob back. And as soon as I said it, I knew that it was the right thing to do. And she chopped off enough to ship off to Locks of Love, and shaped it up, and when it was all blown out and styled and she let me put my glasses back on (I can never tell what I'm getting till it's over, because my eyesight's so terrible), I suddenly knew why I kept thinking for those months that I needed to get my hair chopped off. It was because it wasn't me, that person with hair down her back, it was someone else, someone whose hair was kind of nice and who could put it up to get it out of her way. As soon as I saw my familiar face with my familiar hair in the mirror, I went all shivery with delight and recognition. My hairdresser probably thought I was crazy, I was so happy with that haircut.
I'm glad to have me back. Can you tell?
