Pixie Regret

 

I’ve never been one to associate my identity with my hair, but a recent decision to chop off my locks into a “chic” pixie cut has left me feeling less than confident.  Any girl who has ever left the salon in tears knows all too well there’s something traumatic about a bad haircut.  Don’t get me wrong–I thought about it for weeks and decided I was finally ready for something different.  My short, angled bob, which I’ve been sporting for the better part of a decade, needed a little sprucing up.  So after scouring Pinterest for “short, sassy cuts,” I booked my usual stylist and counted the days ’til my appointment and my new style.

The stylist assured me she could recreate the hairstyle in the photo I showed her, so I took a deep breath and told her to just go for it–knowing all too well that my new husband would hate it.  Just like the typical guy, he prefers long, luscious locks. However, I have learned in 33 years that you have got to work with what ya got.  I can thank my grandmother and mom for my limp, poker-straight, baby-fine hair, and I’ve finally come to embrace it.  After cutting my long hair post high school, I’ve never looked back.  I know I am better suited for short hair.  Plus, I have a short-hair personality. BUT–and this is a huge but–I am not a celebrity.  As such, those adorable, choppy pixie cuts that have been making waves in Hollywood of late are not meant for the common gal. Damn you, Jennifer Lawrence, Kaley Cuoco, Sienna Miller and Michelle Williams!  Why do you make it look so good and so easy?  You are false advertisers and I want my money back.

So needless to say, I left the salon with less hair and less dignity than when I arrived.  The trendy, sassy, chic look I was going for turned out more like a cross between an 8-year-old boy and a 40-something soccer mom, minus the kids and minivan.  While we are hoping to start a family soon, I have zero intention of ever opting for an unsexy minivan.  On my way home, I stopped for a quick bite at Whataburger, and the high school kid at the window referred to me as “ma’am,” so I took that as a good sign.  He still identified me as female–score one for me (I guess).

I recently read that a bad haircut is like a prison sentence, and you have nothing but time to think about what you’ve done during the growing-out process.  I couldn’t agree more.  So while I’ve stocked up on biotin, prenatal vitamins and anything I think could possibly aid in hair growth, I still have to look at this stranger every single day in the mirror, and I have no hope for the warden to release me from this short-hair hell even in light of good behavior.  All I have is time.  Time to learn how to style this damn pixie cut while I wait for it to grow, and God knows I have purchased every spray wax, sticky goo and molding paste to make the task more manageable.

In the meantime, let me give you some advice for what not to say to me when your “Wow, you cut your hair!” comments are met with shrugged shoulders, a bowed head and a disapproving look.  Yes, I know it’s only hair and it will grow back.  However, that does not ease the pain, and your pointing out the obvious only makes me want to take a pair of scissors to your gorgeous Rapunzel-like locks so that you, too, can share in my misery.  Telling me that I’m simply not used to it also doesn’t make me feel any better about my little boy haircut.  Well guess what, I have at least a year to “get used to it,” so perhaps there is the silver lining?  Advising me that perhaps I haven’t learned how to style it also doesn’t ease the tension.  What, are you offering to teach me?  Because if not, thanks for validating my fears that I do, in fact, bear a strong resemblance to Justin Bieber’s little brother!
And one more thing, comments such as “Well, you said you wanted a pixie cut” and “I told you not to cut your hair” only make me want to flat-out punch you in the face.  At what point in your life did someone tell you that “I told ya so’s” were EVER met with a positive outcome?

So yes, maybe I am a little bitter about my decision and perhaps I will be a tad bit bitchier over the next 11 or 12 months because I can’t walk around with a paper sack over my head.  So sue me!  I’m doing time in bad-hair prison with no chance of parole.  The only hope I have of bringing even an ounce of femininity back to my look is through cute clothes and tons of fabulous shoes.  Thank God I don’t have to walk around this prison in an orange jumpsuit because orange isn’t my color.  Let’s face it–I don’t even think orange looks good on celebrities.

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