In my constant vacillation between long hair and short hair, I’ve been growing mine for about six months. After all, if you’re going to become a Birkenstock-wearing, organic food growing, wild food foraging, earth mother, you SHOULD have long, luscious locks, right? The kind that can be piled up in a messy bun or loosely braided and tossed over one shoulder?
The problem? I’ve never, in all my born days, had the kind of hair that lends itself to the long and luscious look. My hair is fine, straighter than a pencil and determined to stay that way. To make matters worse, the older I get the slower it grows and the less willing it is to be curled, teased, sprayed, and manipulated into position. Those grays are stubborn as all get out. Not only do they reject my attempts at coloring them, they refuse to comply with styling tools. Perhaps they are trying to tell me something… Or maybe I should just shave my head and get a wig. Except wigs are hot.
When I lost weight I felt like I could cut my hair, as though I wouldn’t suddenly be a pinhead on a enormous bloated body, so I did. For a little more than five years I thoroughly enjoyed my pixie cuts. Now, plus 10-15 pounds, I hesitate. I want to hide behind a coiffeured curtain of hair.
And now, suddenly, as if my hair is staging an all-out rebellion, my chin-length layered cut won’t “do” anything but a modified Jane Jetson, flipped out all the way around my head like some kind of typhoon wave. Worse, one side flips out, the other flips under, requiring some contortionist action with the straightening iron, lest I look like the freshman victim of a senior swirlie. Every. Single. Day.
So, after catching a disturbing glimpse of my silhouette in a reflection this morning, after my hair was styled for the day, I’m done. It’s back to short and sassy.
Sayonara, Jane Jetson.