My mother remarked to me last week that I had “quite the head of hair.” After years of wearing it of varying degrees of short, I had let my hair grow, pretty much non-stop, for about three years. Recently, it had also developed natural ashy-blonde highlights. It actually looked pretty decent. But there was a lot of it.

And last night, I was irritable, and the fact that the layers upon layers of my hair would NOT detangle was annoying me. Strands upon strands were falling out. So I took a razor to the bottom layers. The results were still good, and I should have stopped there. Instead I picked up the scissors and hacked off a few inches.

Cutting my own hair is nothing new. I haven’t had a professional haircut in three years, and before that, they were pretty rare. I’ve been cutting my own hair for nearly eight years, and usually I’m pleased with the results, except once, which I did right before I started Skidmore. Thus my Skidmore ID (the pictures that ALL your professors get of you with their class lists) is proof of the worst.haircut.ever)) I always mean to go out and get a fabulous haircut, but I’m afraid nothing will ever live up to the amazing haircut I got in Italy. I tried to have it recreated when it started to grow out, the result was disasterous, and that was the last time I trusted anyone else with the scissors.

I was reasonably pleased with the results when I went to bed. Then I woke up this morning and decided I wasn’t, but eh, it’s not THAT bad, and it’ll grow back. Now, after egomaniacly glancing at my reflection in every storefront window on the way to work. I have decided I hate it, I look horrible, and that this proves once and for all that I look much better with long, straight-ish hair than chin length curly-ish hair.

And yeah, whatever, it will grow back, but for now I am being a total girl and complaining about my hair. Though while I’m screwing with it, I may as well go for dying it a darker shade.