It's the second time my hair's been cut since Rosey was born. I had it trimmed when she was about three months old, and then....I didn't go back. (Psst: This two-kid thing? Lotta work.)
Rosey is almost 27 months old. I had a lot of hair.
The hairdresser (I tried a new place) was loath at first to begin. I had simple instructions. (I've never been terribly fussy about my hair - it grows back, after all.) I wanted height on top to direct attention to my eyes, and seriously didn't care about the rest of it. Sticky-out bits? Okay. Bangs? Whatever. 'Are you sure?' she said, feinting with the scissors, fussing with the cape, smoothing my bangs down. 'Really sure? That's quite a bit to cut off.'
After a few minutes, I wanted to grab her shears and cut off a hank, just so she'd see that I was serious. I tried to not look irritated and to smile convincingly. 'Sure. Really sure.'
She looked dubious but set to work. I really, really wanted to wait until she was halfway done and then scream 'Oh my GOD, it's too short!!' but decided she'd probably not see the humor in that.
And now instead of long hair to the middle of my back (or the dreaded ponytail set on top of my head) I have a squiggly cap, with side-bangs and movement and enough for me to tuck behind my ears or push forward or whatever I want. It brings out my eyes, de-emphasizes my jaw, and makes me feel pretty.
Today I felt like me.