When is a haircut more than a haircut?

I didn’t chicken out.

Not exactly, anyway.

I DID manage to convince my hairdresser to cut a good portion of my hair off this weekend.

Not as much as *I* wanted, though.

Seriously.

WHY IS IT that the people with scissors don’t believe a woman when she says “I want to cut my hair. I want it SHORT?”

I mean. I’ve had short hair before. As in boy short in the back. I had it long enough to tuck behind my ears, but everything else was short.

And I LOVED my short hair. I colored it funky colors, because I was in my 20s and single. I loved that it was quick to do. I loved that I just had to muss it and go in the morning.

So when I went in on Saturday, I wanted her to CUT IT OFF. All of it.

But she convinced me that I should try this first. And if, you know, I wanted to go shorter, I CAN.

Still.

I came out of there disappointed.

Because I need a CHANGE right now. I’m tired, and I’m in a rut, and I’m feeling somewhat shackled with responsibility. And invisible, and mediocre, and boring.*

And I could REALLY use feeling a little funky and irresponsible right now.

What better way to have some fun than to cut my hair, just cut it all OFF?

I mean, IT’S JUST HAIR. It will grow back.

But instead. I let her talk me into trying a chin-length bob.

Which, you know, is FINE. And practical. And better than what it was, I guess.

But not even CLOSE to what I was hoping for.

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*More to come on this, I promise.