I actually told someone the other day that I’ve had short hair most of my life. That the current long hair I have is unusual. And it’s the way I think. Just like I still sort of think I’m blonde. I mean, deep down I know I’m not blonde. But I’m surely not as dark-haired as I sometimes appear, or as my husband thinks I am. But the truth of the matter is, I’ve had long hair most of my adult life. It was just the boy short haircuts my mother made me get as a child that have mutated my mind into thinking I’ve always had the haircut I had in my first grade picture. But if I think back to big events in my life, at least since I was able to fight for growing my hair out, I’ve had long hair. Eighth grade graduation. Long. High School dances. Long. Senior picture. Short, but of my own choice. Graduation. Long. Freshman year of college. Long, then short. Then long again. Then medium and layered. Then long. Then REALLY short. Then long. Then a little short. Then long. Then a little short. Then long. Longer. Longest.
But back to being long-haired. I’ve been on a quest my entire life to have long hair. Again, stemming from my mother butchering my hair as a child. My goal from high school was to have my hair long enough that I could wear a scrunchie in it halfway down a low ponytail and have it stay and look cool. Obviously that’s no longer the fad. I was talking to an older woman the other night who grew her hair out once so she could put it in a banana clip (Remember those? Are they going to come back?) only to have the craze die just as she reached her goal. More recently, I wanted my hair to reach the top of my bra in back. I would look in the mirror over my shoulder and determine that if my hair got that long, that would be really long hair and I would be satisfied. But it seems as though hair length and anorexia are a bit similar. (At least what I know about anorexia from all those made for tv movies I watched growing up.) Now that my hair definitely reaches the top of my bra, it doesn’t seem long enough at all.
Here’s the problem. I know I don’t look good with long hair. I have fine hair. It’s barely there at all. My whole life people have told me I look better with short hair. And so I have an appointment on Saturday to get it chopped off. Here’s where I should explain that by chopped off, I mean, CHOPPED OFF. I’ve actually gone to get my haircut before only to have the beautician worry over my reaction to the amount of hair that I want cut off figuring I’ll freak out on them. But that’s the thing, I’m not uber attached to my long hair. I grow my hair out for a few years, then I chop it... ususally pretty short. Then I grow it out for a few years, then I chop it. Repeat cycle. Repeat cycle. I’m just worried that at some point I’m going to get to old and my hair will stop growing and I’ll be one of those old ladies with short, gray, permed hair. The woman I swore to never become.
And worse, I’m becoming the person so obsessed with her hair she’s written a blog entry about it. When did that happen?