When I was in college, I had a roommate who did what every woman contemplates but often doesn’t have the nut to carry out: She took a pair of scissors and hacked off all of her blonde hair. She was beautiful enough to get away with it. And skinny. And glamorous. Blah, blah.
Every time I thought about it—and even got as far as bringing the scissors close to my head—I heard the voice. No, not Winona. This voice was more like Dudley Moore narrating a very sad children’s book: “She had been such a pretty girl. And then she went and ruined it. And sat home every Saturday night until her hair grew so long around her it eventually swallowed her whole. The end.”
Despite the knowledge that I could never pull off a jagged self-coif, I have always, always wanted to hack it all off. Especially lately. Long hair takes forever to blow dry. Ponytails give you pattern baldness (it’s true!). And Chuck, being the bald man he is, has always encouraged/bullied me into changing my hairdo because he has hair envy and let’s be honest, there’s only so much you can do with facial hair. (Though if I were a guy, I would totally have a handlebar moustache. Why the hell not? It’s badass!)
So, um, yesterday morning I went to the hairdressers and said “Chop it off!”
And now I look like this:
Just in time for my high school reunion this Saturday.
Lesson? The voice, whoever the hell it sounds like, is always right.
About me: I'm 42 and added another gherkin to our pickle party of a family. My husband Chuck, our 9-year-old Junior, our 6-year-old Everett, our toddler and I live in a town in Connecticut I affectionately call Mulletville Lite (aka my childhood hometown). My friends call me Nutjob, and they're right. In my husband's spare time he dresses up as a Viking and chases ghosts (and I'm the nutjob?). When I'm not busy working as a graphic designer, I lie in a ball in the corner.