NEW CASTLE —
Last week I cut my hair.
It was not just a trim, style change or addition of side-swept bangs. I cut what was about a 12-inch ponytail and several inches in various other areas of my hair.
It was not an impulsive decision. I had wanted to cut it for a while, but only recently had I started obsessing over pictures of “pixie cuts.”
From 2003 to 2009, I kept my hair short and I loved it. It never bothered me to have a bare neck and two inches of hair on top of my head. I liked how it framed my face.
However, once I started growing it out at the end of 2009 I began to fancy myself with longer hair. By the end of 2012 I had over two feet of hair when I made the impulsive decision to cut it into a chin-length bob. This was almost to the day that I found out I was pregnant with my second child.
Immediately after the cut I felt remorse. I wanted my long hair back. After Googling “worst haircuts for pregnant women,” I stumbled across a sea of images of bobbed haircuts and my remorse escalated into panic.
So in September of 2012 I began once again to grow out my hair and swore that I wouldn’t do anything to it until I was happy with my length.
By the time I had my second daughter in April my hair was past my shoulders and I was well on my way to the long flowing tresses of my yesteryear.
But, in August I made the rash decision to get bangs and ended up taking three precious inches off of my ends and hating my bangs.
I then spent the next three months growing back hair and pinning back bangs, swearing once again to never do anything drastic to my hair.
Fast forward to January 2014.
After siphoning through thousands of pixie haircuts, including my own, I called my stylist and made an appointment.
Despite the mixed reviews I got from friends, family members and random strangers, I pushed on with my plans for a cut.
The day of what I will now always refer to as “the cut” my hair looked kind of nice, so I quickly tied it up in a messy ponytail to avoid staring at it in the mirror and changing my mind.
Once I arrived at the salon my stomach began to churn. Should I? Shouldn’t I?
My hairdresser gave her input and thought it would look nice and so after a thorough wash and a towel dry, I found myself sitting in the chair for “the cut.”
She asked me several times if I was sure. I the heard the slicing of metal through my hair, followed by the release of weight from the back of my neck, followed by intense nausea. She was sure not to show me the hair that she had cut off and quickly whisked it away.
This would have been more effective had the other person in the room not remarked on “how much hair” it was.
Thirty minutes later I had myself a pixie cut.
Thirty minutes after that, I decided to start “growing it out.”
And so, here I am again, with short hair that I have to grow out.
I do love the cut, my hairdresser always does a good job, and in some ways I don’t regret cutting it.
It’s good to take chances in life sometimes, especially with things that are not permanent.
The next time I feel like changing something, however, I will get a manicure or, perhaps, wax my eyebrows.
I am done with the haircuts — for now.
NEW CASTLE —
Last week I cut my hair.
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