It’s been… three days.
Let’s be clear, there are far more important things in this world than my hair.
But the problem isn’t my hair, y’know? It’s the way I’ve made this same mistake yet again, the way I know that it will happen over and over, every few years, that I’ll decide that cutting my hair will work for me this time and I’ll get this same short bob and then immediately wish I hadn’t.
I have miraculously soft, fine baby hair. At a certain length, it gets really wavy, and then, just as gorgeous mermaid hair starts to seem like a possibility, it will weaken and break off. Because it’s fine, and because there is a lot of it, it gets frizzy as a motherfucker, flat up the top and wildly abandoned at the bottom. It’s an ashy brown-blonde-mouse colour and it shows grease and sweat like a white silk neckerchief. It grows like mad, it weighs practically nothing and it gets everywhere: my face, your face, the shower drain, caught in my handbag strap, wrapped around buttons.
Cropped hair just makes me look like a bedbound monk or, more recently, makes me look like a clone of my mother. I always end up getting bored with long hair and just doing the same two hairstyles (volumeless topknot and half-up Arwen twists). I always, always, take the middle road and get it cut into a bob.
So now it’s too short for a ponytail, it flicks out at the bottom and/or just becomes a bedraggled mess if I wear it out naturally, and of course it just looks greasier because there’s less length for the oil to spread along. (Not to mention the fact that, of course, I’m usually a bit depresso when such haircuts come along and this time I’m eating trash and grease on the regular.)
I talked myself into it because it’ll be quicker to dry–and flat-ironing it now takes less than two minutes. Which is great if I’m going to work and am happy to look like C.C. Babcock. But anything other than Humourless 90s Work Bitch is an impossibility because there just isn’t enough hair.
People keep saying it’s cute and I don’t know how to respond, because I’m a grown woman who doesn’t want to default to ‘cute’, and I feel like I look ten years younger. And 21-year-old me is not someone I ever want to be again. She was sad and confused, tired, living on Centrelink payments, using $1 parallel-import shampoo and eating mince and rice every day. But her hair was lush as hell.