I Am My Hair

A little while ago, a friend of mine suggested that I write a blog post about my (somewhat) recent haircut.  At first, you might think that sounds like a silly or even stupid idea, but if there’s one thing people know about me, it’s that I have a horrible phobia of haircuts.  In fact, it’s my third biggest fear, after centipedes and my computer exploding in my face.   In that regard, writing about my haircut made perfect sense – it was a big deal for me, and now I can almost say, “I’m not afraid anymore!

Now, this fear didn’t just develop over night, it was brought on by one too many bad experiences.  As a child, I was known for my long brown locks and blunt-sometimes-split-by-a-giant-cowlick-bangs (which later became my signature look again during university), but one day I apparently decided that I wanted to look like Mary-Kate and Ashley.  In my defense, it was the early 2000s, so who didn’t?  I went in for the kill chop, and came out with some weird looking bangs and shoulder length hair that I often wore parted in the middle.  Funny enough, I am currently sporting a similar look now.  This haircut was hardly the worst, even though my mother once told me I looked like Hanson, which I will never, ever let her live down.  Ever.

I let this style grow out for a while (rhyme, unintended), but then, as kids do, I got bored.  So, looking for a change, I stumbled upon a 2002 issue of Teen People Magazine (a fine piece of literature), with Mandy Moore on the cover.  I excitedly went to my hair appointment, photo in tow, but instead of looking like a trendy, pop star-sweetheart, I ended up with something like this:


This isn’t the worst of it, but I tried very hard to make the photos from that time disappear completely, so this is some of the only evidence left.

Let’s just there the car ride home was not good.  I will forever blame my sister for influencing this choice.  I mean, why in the world did I ever believe her when she told me how awesome it would look?  I suppose it doesn’t really matter anymore, but I was stuck with that cut throughout my most awkward life stages.  I had it all – a “boy” haircut, pimples, missing teeth (thanks to awesome genetics), and an upper lip with a little too much fuzz.

Next came high school.  This period in my life meant changing my hair from brown to blonde to pink to blonde and brown again.  I was experimenting, because that’s what teenagers do.  I even let a friend cut my hair once, which resulted in a much less cool version of T-Boz’s iconic ‘do.  Yep – there were two long chunks at the front, and a bluntly cut bob at the back.  The reverse mullet, if you will.  I later got it fixed by a real hairdresser, who spent most of the appointment yelling at me while wildly snipping my already ruined hair.



Yep, my hair is crimped. Remember crimped hair?! And yes, that is Dallas Green, don’t hate. I was really cool.


After a series of unfortunate cuts, I decided that scissors and my hair would be sworn enemies for the rest of my life.  I had been letting it grow since I was about 15 (I am 22 now…), with the odd trim here and there, and I was finally starting to come to peace with how it looked.  I even started to like it.  Once my hair passed my shoulders, I knew there would be no going back.  Never again would I let myself go through hair-trauma.  Or so I thought…

Once 2013 started, I a feeling of needing change came over me.  With the exception of my lightened ends, my hair was bland, boring and unruly. For the past few years, I had toyed with the idea of chopping my ombré mane, but as soon as I imagined myself in that salon chair, memories of horrible haircuts passed flashed through my mind.  I was often left clutching my precious strands as if comforting them from the mere thought of being snipped from my head.  For some reason, I came to equate haircuts to head shaving. But I was conflicted.  My bleached ends were dried out, split all over and SO thirsty.  They longed to be rescued, but not even the best of the best of oils and conditioners could save them.


My poor, thirsty, bleached ends.

It was time.  The straw-like dead ends just needed to go.  So I did it – I made an appointment.  I told myself that this would be for the best; I couldn’t keep holding on to my hair like a worn-out childhood blanket.  I arrived at the salon filled with nerves and excitement.  Once I sat in that chair, the stylist brushed my freshly-washed hair and without warning, she dove right in.  I didn’t look down once as the hair fell to the floor, but I didn’t need to.  When those seven inches were cut from my head, I felt more like myself then I had for a really long time, and I don’t even care how cliché that sounds.  One fear down, two to go.



1 comment
  1. As a stylist I am sad about your hair journey but glad you over came. 😉

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