last night, I had a dream about looking in a mirror and thinking, “You would look amazing if you cut your hair off.”
And then this morning, when Bear forgot his insulin and I brought it to his office and I had a hat over my greasy hair because I’d just woken up, he said playfully, “You should cut off your hair. You’d look so cute.”
And then I was back home, later this morning, working on yet another article, and suddenly I got up and went into the bathroom and stared at myself in the mirror for a full minute, or maybe slightly longer, and I thought, “It’s so annoying how it gets knotted every time I wear my coat.” Which is all the time, because it’s winter.
I went into the other room and got the scissors with the blue handles. I came back into the bathroom and before I could think anything that meant anything, I cut off a huge chunk of my hair. In the front.
I kept cutting.
I felt great. I was grinning at myself. The more I cut, the better I looked. The better I felt.
After a while, I took a break and washed it and dried it. The drying part took like a minute. My mom called. We talked about how our weeks were going. I mentioned that I was cutting my hair.
“Oh no,” she said. “Professionally, I hope?”
“No, right now. While we’re talking.”
“Are you joking?”
“Nope. I’m definitely cutting it right now.”
There was a bushy patch that the headset was obscuring.
“You know you have a job,” she said, and then, “Or several.”
“Your scare tactics aren’t working.”
She burst out laughing. “Fine.”
I’ve thought about cutting my hair for a while. I wrote about really short hair and shaved heads here. But then I thought, “There’s the wedding. I can’t have really short hair in the pictures.” And then I thought, “It’s the winter, I’ll be cold.” And all along I thought, “I should really lose a little weight before I do it, because short hair looks better on skinny people.”
Which is why I’m glad that I just did it. As soon as I finished, I ate a bunch of Fig Newmans (those things are really not at all healthy, even though they have “organic” written all over the packaging), and I wondered why I hadn’t done this sooner.
When I watched a documentary about New York City preschools, all of the teachers and administrators over forty had short hair. All of the young, stylish moms had long hair. When I went out to meet Bear (who was very impressed) and a friend for dinner, I noticed that I was the only young woman in sight with really short hair.
Ha! Whatever! I cut off my hair!
* * *
Un-roast: Today I love the way I look with my stick-up boy hair. Come on, you saw that coming.
P.S. I wrote this piece last night. That’s why the timing sounds off. But I left it that way, because it sounded better.
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