That’s a bit of a cheeky title. I didn’t cry, as I expected I would. In fact a little part of me feels like I’m blowing things out of proportion. But a big part of me is still aware that I gave up something I had spent years lovingly crafting. (So loving it bordered on creepy. Every time I found one of my silver hairs had been pulled out, I said goodbye to it. More often than not I named it and thanked it for its service. Balthazar was the last to go.)
The hairdresser I found wasn’t super experienced cutting off hair for donation, but I talked her through it step by step and she was very happy to oblige. She did an excellent job styling my hair afterwards, although I still surprise myself in the mirror. To be honest, I barely notice that it’s gone. Certainly my head is a little lighter, but for the most part I don’t feel any different. Lots of little things keep reminding me of the change; the rustle as my short, sharp bristles rub against the headrest of the car; the feeling of wind on the back of my neck; my reflexive action to pull my hair free after I put on a shirt or pull a bag strap over my shoulder. It’s pretty relieving to be able to turn my head at night rather than having it trapped by my snagged mane. And I guess it’s exciting to be able to style my hair in different ways, but…
It just feels like a step back, y’know? I look in the mirror and I see myself as I looked three years ago. I remember looking like this. And I don’t like looking “the way I used to”. I liked looking like the way I wanted to look, brave and adventurous and defiant like a glorious pirate captain.
Anyway, here are the photos of my haircut. I’m curious to see what my first shower will be like, shampooing and then not having to blowdry it. Although many of my friends have complimented me on my new look, I think the final picture sums up my own opinion perfectly.