Sometime in the late spring/early summer (in New England, apparently, there is a difference, which is untrue of the South, where I grew up) I chopped all my hair off right after getting out of the hospital for some scary sickness I had. It was very– I don’t know– Rosemary Woodhouse of me.
Now, I’m growing my hair out because I miss the carelessness of ponytails, but some days, I’m tempted to cut it all off again. Some women, though, make the short hair look so perfect and glamorous:
So, if you had a year anything remotely like mine, I encourage you to do something psychotic like taking a pair of scissors to your hair at the first chance you get, possibly while quoting some really upsetting poem to the mirror. Or– do what I did: pay a stylist to do that. There’s nothing more relaxing than having someone else shampoo you, make small talk with you, as Ke$ha plays over the speakers, while you wonder if you’re going to get hives again from all the stress bubbling up inside you.
The best thing about getting your hair all chopped off?
If people like it, they’ll talk about it.
If they don’t, they’ll talk about you.