Well, I got my hair cut. I scheduled the cut in July, eight weeks from my previous one, but my stylist was on vacation so it ended up being nine. After week five I was desperate for a cut. My thick hair was frizzing daily in the summer humidity, to the point where the five minutes between drying it and walking out the door was the only time my hair looked good the entire day.
Which is fine, really. I don’t need to impress anyone. I have one of those husbands that likes to tell me he loves me no matter what. I work in a basement with people who have become my friends and who accept me for who I am, frizz and all. I might meet someone important during a grocery trip to Wal-Mart but do I really care what that gorgeous girl from nursing school thinks about how I look today? No. No, I don’t.
But with my 10% weight loss, the hair appointment I knew I had coming up, and the breaking of my three-year-old glasses, I thought it would be fun to do a little mini-makeover. New hair, new glasses, maybe an eyebrow wax. Something to keep me motivated as we begin the journey into winter, which historically is my worst season for overeating (although, isn’t it everyone’s?). I began to think about short hair, pinning styles on Pinterest and quizzing my girlfriends who have pixie cuts about maintenance, products, and styling.
I never thought I could pull off a short style because I have a pretty weak chin, and have always used my hair as a sort of curtain, both to cover it up and to create shadows where none exist naturally. But losing almost 20 pounds meant some of the weight came off my face, and all of a sudden, I felt like maybe I didn’t need that curtain to hide behind anymore.
I do feel like I need to start wearing makeup again, because now my face is front and center, people. And maybe earrings too. But I’m OK with that. As a grownup, I probably should never have stopped wearing makeup anyway, right?
The first day, buoyed by the excitement of the girls at the salon, I loved the cut. The second day, after sleeping on it, I wasn’t sure. I would catch glances of myself in the mirror and wonder what the hell I did to my beautiful hair. The third day, more glances, more self-doubt. The fourth day, today, I finally washed it and tried to dry and style it myself. And while I couldn’t get that one piece in the front to cascade effortlessly down my forehead like my stylist could, I’ll work on it. I do like it. And I’m so glad I did it.