Ping

The other day, I waltzed into a salon, sat myself down, and breezily let the stylist have her way with my hair. Child that I am, I indicated a length somewhere around my collarbones. Layers? Sure!

My hair hung, lustrous and heavy, down my back and draped over the back of the chair. I haven't had layers since I was twelve. Oh yeah, because I HATED them.

When I stood, the tips of my hair reached just below the dip in my back. I had been lazy this year and hadn't cut my hair the drastic six-eight inches I did every year. It was more laziness than any actual desire to have hair that long, but let me tell you something. Long hair becomes a way of life.

You heard me.

It's safe. Feeling fat? Or shy? Let down those long locks and boom. It's more effective than an invisibility cloak. (Okay, not really)

It's surprisingly low maintenance. If it looks like shit you can throw it in a bun or a braid, but if it's a good hair day, you look like a fairy princess. Now that I've gone and murdered mine, I can tell you that it's almost too short to be coaxed into a braid or bun. It's tiny, and uncertain as a bun and laughable as a braid. Who'd take it seriously? Now I gotta style it every morning.

It's a statement. Random people, strangers, would stop me and compliment my hair. Do you know how few people can grow out their hair that long? It's a prestige thing. Now if people look at me and see this disgraceful hedge growing out of my head they'll never know how capable I am.

And the color. I've henna'd my hair a couple times, and the color was something marvelous. Purple, red, orange, mixed all through with my natural bluey black. Some threads of gold. In the light, it was soooooooo cool. In darkness it was...well, I'm not going to lie. In darkness it just looked black. Whatever. I live in San Diego; it's always light out.

I just wanted you all to know how very upset I am. My vanity is in the hospital. Please think carefully before you hack off all that beautiful hair.

God, the layers just add insult to injury.