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On Going Short

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Last month, I got a hair cut.  I thought I was going in for my same haircut, just a little shorter for summer.  Still ponytail length, nothing crazy.  But when my hairdresser told me to look down and I felt the scissors on the back of my neck right at my hairline, I knew it was too short and also too late.  My skin under the plastic cape prickled. 

Snip, snip. 

Now it was a full on nervous sweat.  Inches of my hair fell to the ground.  I didn’t think I had that much to lose.  I bit the inside of my cheek.  A trick I use to get myself grounded when I start to feel out of control.  It’s something I picture Bruce Banner doing to keep himself from going full Hulk.  In that case, drawing blood might do the opposite and cause him to see green. 

Can we take a quick digression minute and talk about Hulk and Natasha and the lullaby situation in the new Avengers movie?  I love that she’s the one in control and reigning him in.  And that even though on paper, she’s the more messed up one, he’s the one that can’t get his act together to be with her.  So much redemption!  So much angst! End digression.

In the swivel chair, I kept my eyes down for a long time, refusing to look at the oversized mirror in front of me.  As I felt the scissors along my jaw, I tried to think about how I didn’t look like a boy.  Not a dress-wearing, curve-having gal like myself.  No way.  Nothing like a boy.  After she cut my bangs, used a clipper to trim the back of my neck, and started drying what little was left of my hair, I looked up.  I looked like a boy. 

She took off the cape.  I got out of the chair and started immediately fishing for compliments.  It wasn’t working.  I wasn’t feeling any better about myself.  When I got home, my father was there on the phone, looked at me, stopped talking and said, “What did you do?”  My heart plummeted.  “I’ve gotta call you back,” he told the person on the other line.

Boy.  Oh, boy. 

“You hate it?” I asked him.

“Now, I didn’t say that.  I just need some time to process it,” he answered.  We’re the same in this way. 

I SnapChatted everyone in my friends list asking for opinions and validation.  I only got back a few “it’s cutes!” and way too many vieweds but no responses or “it’s so short!”  Thanks, y’all.  I know it’s short.

I took the dog for a walk and started to pray.  I prayed about my heart being in the right place and not tangled up with my hair on the floor of the salon.  My hair is absolutely tied to my identity.  The premature gray is my signature look.  But it’s not where the value part of my identity lies.  I had to remind myself where my value and my worth is.  Thank God it’s not in my hair.  It’s in Him.

After the walk, I felt much better because I had gotten my eyes off my own reflection and out at the beautiful world.  I took a step back from my first world problems and upped my sass factor to match my haircut. 

Now, a month into this new look, I’m rocking it.  Sass level achieved. 


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