The reason why I didn’t want to do yet another hair post was because I am afraid of seeming kind of obsessed. I think a reader left a comment to this effect recently. I didn’t read the whole thing, because I could tell it would be mean, and I’m a wimp. Actually, I think it’s because I’m a wimp that I keep cutting my hair in stages. I wasn’t brave enough to do it all at once.
My dad accused me of being obsessed with my hair when I told him I wanted to buzz it. He was kind of joking, but kind of not joking.
There’s only so much support you can expect, when you’re a woman who keeps making her hair even shorter. My brothers used to get buzz cuts, and no one really even noticed. But I suddenly realized that my desire to have the shortest hair possible makes me a little radical. Which is not my intention. My intention is to have the shortest hair possible. Because I love it.
The shorter my hair is, the happier I feel about my appearance.
These days, I feel really, really happy about the way I look. And it’s made me want to do something else that’s a little radical: stop wearing a bra.
Not all the time. But when there’s a dress with thin straps and a dramatic back. Or just a tank top with thickish fabric.
I don’t spend a lot of time thinking about my breasts. They’re fine. But I wear a padded bra, because I think it looks more…balanced. When I’m getting really critical towards my body, I sometimes think things like, “It doesn’t make sense for them to be that size.” As though they are a biological failure. Something went wrong with my genes. I appreciate them when I’m jogging. In general, I ignore them. They aren’t significant enough to attract my attention. And they don’t do much for a shirt on their own.
There’s that line in the stupid old chant…. “It’s better, it’s better, it’s better for the sweater!” You know what I’m talking about?
My boobs are not better for the sweater. They are worse for the sweater.
Going braless and having a buzz cut don’t seem to go together. I went through that phase, when I first cut my hair, of compensating with makeup and heels (which aren’t always compensation but sometimes are). I was a little nervous about my femininity. Going braless was the last option.
I don’t know what changed. Maybe I got comfortable. But all of a sudden, I feel feminine anyway. Without makeup. Without the bra that makes me look curvier. I feel like wearing daring outfits. I feel like wearing big earrings and interesting tops with belts and skirts that don’t quite, but almost, match.
I feel sexy.
I know what the shape of my head is, for the first time. Which seems kind of surprising in a way. Maybe I’m a little less afraid of the shape of my breasts as a result.
I am not trying to make a statement at all. But maybe I’m making a statement anyway. If I am, I hope this is the one I’m making:
It’s really fun to look the way you actually look.
I am having SO MUCH FUN. It’s catching me by surprise. My face in the bathroom mirror in the morning is fantastic. I find myself hoping it lasts, as though this is some sort of Cinderella phase, which will turn to rags and dust too soon. Before I am ready to stop dancing.
It’s probably better to dance a lot, right now, anyway. In general.
But my optimistic side thinks this might be forever. She is putting on a little, strappy dress. She has forgotten the bra again. And my other side has to come along, because, you know, they’re attached.
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Unroast: Today I love how hilariously easy it is to wash my hair.
P.S. It helps that a lot of women I see around my neighborhood have really, really short hair, too. Way to go, Brooklyn!
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