Let me tell ya, I am PSYCHED to debut my new hair (or lack thereof). When I tell people about my grand plans (mwoohahaha), I usually get one of two reactions:
Reaction #1: “WHAT??! You’re chopping off…all of it? Like, boy-short??!!” Why do people always just assume you’re going to look like a boy with short hair?
Reaction #2: “Awesome! Good for you! I’m excited to see what that will look like!” Thank you! So am I!
I know there’s most likely scads of people out there who are looking to start fresh, and now I am of the opinion that you definitely do not need to wait until New Year’s to do it. For me, the perfect refresher was to start this blog, chronicling my crazy moodlings, and whack my hair all off. It seemed like such a daring thing to do, so taboo in this society that praises women with long, soft, flowing locks, that I knew I had to take the plunge. Just to see what it felt like. To kind of stick my tongue out at society, as it were. I decided to go into detail about the process of massacring the hair that I’ve worn since kindergarten in this “The Killing of the Beast” series here on The Girl in the Orange, for all you lovely ladies out there to decide whether it’s something you’d be interested in doing or not.
First, just a little background: I started jokingly referring to my hair as ‘The Beast’ two years ago, because that’s how I always thought of it. Out-of-control, exasperating, mind-of-its-own, downright terrifying, that kind of thing. People always told me they wished they could have my thick hair, and I really would have gladly traded with them. I am very low-maintenance about my hair. My daily philosophy was to just sort of ignore it, wishing that it would magically slick itself down and bounce around in flirty little ringlets. In fact, one of my most prominent memories of elementary school (and it’s so random!) was in third grade, when I was eating pizza in the cafeteria and a girl named Ashley, who was gorgeous and had a long brown braid swinging down at about hip length, came up to me, wrinkled her nose, and asked, “Do you ever brush your hair?”
Maybe if I was blessed with a type that didn’t require so much wrangling and tears in the morning, it would have looked better on a daily basis. But instead, I gave up. I brushed it through in the morning, then just left it down or threw a hat on and tried not to look into mirrors all that much. (In fact, I think my self-esteem may have squeaked through the last three years of my life on sheer ignorance alone. It’s bliss.)
And so, when my overrated but oh-so-true-to-life teenage identity crisis kicked in, along with a rather unfortunate set of circumstances that I shall be quite vague about on purpose, I decided that the only natural thing to do was to chop all my hair off. Thereby escaping from it all and completing my “journey” to fully becoming The Girl in the Orange.
We scheduled the appointment at the salon in early August. I complained when it happened to fall on the 31st. It seemed so faaaar away then, such a l-o-o-o-o-o-o-ng wait.
And now it’s tomorrow.
I’m not going to lie, I’m freaking out.
I normally don’t really give a $#&! to how my hair looks, but I’m used to it and therefore I am kinda sorta partial to it. I can’t back out on my appointment now. I don’t want to back out, really…well, somewhat. I just still can’t imagine what it’s going to be like… But I know afterward I’ll kill myself if I chicken out.
In a word, I am apprehensive. Very.
But also crazy excited.
I feel like I’m standing in line for the Cyclone at Coney Island.
I’ll see you tomorrow.