All you skeptics out there didn’t think I’d be able to muster up the courage to do it. Well honestly speaking – neither did I. Cutting my beloved hair off was much like ending a marriage. I made a promise that I would take care of it in sickness and in health, ‘till scissors do us part. Those of you who know me – or even those of you who have Rapunzel’s hair length – can understand the long (no pun intended) love affair I’ve had with my hair. I was attached to it like a baby to its pacifier. “It’s just hair, it’ll grow back,” people would tell me. Yes, thank you for your brilliant insight. “Don’t do it, you’ll look like a boy,” other detractors would say. Thanks jerk.
But most of you are probably wondering what possessed me to take such a drastic step in the first place. No, I’m not trying to emulate Rihanna (although I wouldn’t mind swapping genes with her). Perhaps if you scroll down to my “Wonder Year” blog, that will better explain my desire to reinvent myself – be it by stepping outside my comfort zone, or by stepping inside a salon.
Whether people love it or hate it is yet to be seen, but regardless of the verdict, it’s gone. But rather than crying over the loss, I almost feel a bit liberated because I feel empowered. I know it sounds a bit silly – creating all this fuss over a haircut – but it made me think about how hard I try to hold on to things in my life, when in fact, I have the power to let go… if I simply choose to. All I ever knew and had was long hair, and I feared change. Feared that I won’t look the same. Feared that I won’t know what to do with my new do. Feared that I might actually look like a boy. But now that it’s gone, I fear no more. With those 10 inches, I also shed a layer of inhibition.
Like an umbilical cord that releases a child from its mother, I’ve released my baby – and we’re both doing just fine.
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