Delaware County is expecting to transition to phase three this weekend, meaning haircuts and dye jobs will no doubt be abounding. I’ve seen lots of ladies in hats. I suspect it has something to do with the hair that’s hiding underneath.
I’m not going to be cutting mine.
I long ago freed myself from the tyranny of hair dye, and let my prematurely gray hair fly like a pride flag. At this point, it’s not even premature. It’s just what happens when you get older.
I think the pandemic shutdown may have ended my trips to the salon for good.
Don’t get me wrong. I think hair stylists are miracle workers. A good cut can make you feel like a million bucks. If you need to see a pro, by all means, go and godspeed. But it’s not for me any more.
My hair has always reflected my state of mind. When I’m in upheaval, I suddenly feel the need to have short hair. Then I realize it doesn’t feel like me, whoever that is, and I grow it out again. Recently, I believed that shorter hair was more youthful, less matronly. And maybe it was. But to hell with it.
I miss my ponytail. I miss being able to just pile my hair on top of my head and go out, knowing it looks fine. I don’t like blow dryers. I’m not going to iron my hair straight.
I’ve got perfectly good hair that I’ve tortured most of my life to try to turn it into what I thought was what it should be. And I don’t think my hair should pay for my tortured moods.
So it’s growing. Here’s my plan: I’m going to see how long it can get. I’ve never had hair longer than my shoulder blades. I’ve got 20 years, probably.
Everyone needs a hobby, right?
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