My hair

As I leaned my head back into the sink, I airly said, "Don't feel constrained by what the last hairdresser did." The girl smiled, "Don't worry, I know exactly what I'm going to do." I closed my eyes and she started shampooing.

Later, afterwards, I looked in the mirror. I vaguely remembered saying that I wanted a trim and the shape brought back. I tend to wake up one morning and decide that my hair needs cutting. This sudden realization comes after two weeks in which the only thing I can coax my hair to do is a pony-tail. I remember that my hair used to behave and look almost elegant. I could really see about getting it cut.

It turned out that my stylist had left the salon for another one. The new salon was less convenient in every way possible. So I stuck with the old salon and asked to be booked in. When I've decided to have a hair cut, I need a hair cut in the next forty eight hours. I didn't have time to look for a new place.

Last time I had seen the girl who was about to cut my hair, she had still been an apprentice. She had straightened my hair incorrectly. I didn't think it was possible. Now she was waving scissors around my head. My danger alarm needs new batteries. I decided that in the months since I had last come in contact with her, she must have improved, substantially. Nothing warned me for what was about to occur.

I went in with shoulder length hair. When I put my glasses back on, I had chin length hair.

I'm still in shock.

It's the most vicious trim I've ever had.

Last time, a hairdresser hacked off all my hair, I was nine. It was a cut. It was also the last time I've had a bob. I was inconsolable. My mother, trying to stem the flood of tears, told me, "You haven't lived until a hairdresser has ruined your hair." I decided then that I had crossed that one off the list and I was never getting my hair cut again. Ever.

I would get it trimmed, but never cut. It grew and grew and grew. I gave up on the grudge just before my hair reached my waist. It was too heavy. I had it cut. However, my hair remained below my shoulders. It was safe at that length from crazy hairdressers with scissors and stupid ideas.

Over time, I became more adventurous and the shoulder barrier no longer seemed important. I started trusting stylists again and my hair would frequently get cut shorter than my shoulders. It went longer and shorter and different colours. It came in close proximity to my chin and went below the shoulders again.

Last time I went to have it cut, I wanted it cut short. The hairdresser looked at me and said, "You're not ready." I trusted him. He cut it shortish.

Now my hair is short and that trust is broken. I was not ready for this. I didn't ask for this. I asked for a trim. The annoying thing is that so far most people love it. My shock is subsiding and I'm wondering what to do about the new length. I've realised that my mother lied or I've lived twice. I'm being more mature about it this time around. I'm giving it a chance. I'm not hating it right away. I'm going to give it a few weeks. Then I'm going to start encouraging it to grow with a vengeance.