Professionally, I am a woman who carefully studies an issue, does her research and makes intelligent, informed decisions.
As a mother, I do the same.
As a woman…
Eh…Um…
Not always so much with the carefully considered decisions.
I tend to be a bit of an extremist when it comes to myself.
The reason I share this bit of information with you is because I came across a picture of myself last night that I thought I would share.
However, I felt it needed a bit of an explanation as for the extremity of the picture.
Monkey Girl was born in February of 2001.
She was delightful.
I had very, very long hair when she was born, The prenatal vitamins kicked into overdrive during my pregnancy, and by the time she came, Crystal Gayle, eat your heart out. (For those youngsters in the crowd…she was a 70’s singer with ridiculously long hair…Can’t believe I’m old enough to have to explain pop culture references from the 70’s.)
I digress…
One of Monkey Girls favorite things to do was to bunch up my hair in her fists and pull. She was a few months old, so I knew she wasn’t trying to hurt me, just exploring.
Still, it hurt.
A lot.
It was also a pain to do the ponytail thing every day, and I was feeling schlubby and decided to get a trim.
So, me, Extreme Girl, got in my car and drove to the salon…very spontaneously.
I sat in the chair and said, “Take it off. Take it all off.”
The hairdresser looked at me and said, “All?”
I said, “Yes! All!”
She said, “Have you thought about this?”
I said, “I think too much. I want it off.”
When I get a haircut, I have to take off my glasses, and that means I can’t see what my hair looks like until it’s all done.
When I put my glasses on, I nodded and squeaked out a “Great! Thanks,” grabbed my purse, paid and raced to the car where I promptly burst into tears.
When I got home, Real Man said, “It looks great! You’re beautiful! You just need time to get used to it!”
I cried harder.
He ran me a bath and told me to go relax with a book and calm down.
I got in the tub and curled up and sobbed and sobbed.
I now see that picture and can say, “You know, it was kind of cute!” I also remember how easy it was to take care of. Overall, it was not a bad cut.
But back then…
It was a huge learning experience for me. I never realized how much security I get from my hair, or how completely vulnerable I would feel without it all.
I was suddenly Samson, having lost all of my strength by getting my hair all chopped off.
When I look back at it now, I’m really surprised at my reaction. It’s just hair. It will grow back. It DID grow back.
Yet, my reaction was so strong, that it surprises me still, as I’ve never been a big one for caring how other people view me. It was really about how I viewed myself.
Anyway, I’ve never gone that short again.
I’ve never even gone remotely NEAR that short again.
I am also totally in awe of people who can rock a short ‘do.
However, I’m starting to think about getting the chop again and donating the hair to Locks of Love or some other, similar organization. My decision was just that. A decision. Whether I liked it or not, I chose to chop.
What about those people who don’t get to decide? Those for whom chemo or radiation takes the decision out of their hands?
And I made such a fuss over a haircut I didn’t like?
Shame on me.
Suddenly a bad hair day doesn’t seem all that bad, and the idea of using the lesson I learned to help someone else is seeming better and better.
