Today I did something I haven’t done in nine years. I let someone cut my hair. Like, cut it. For real. At least six inches, shorn, sliced, hewn from my head.

I didn’t plan this. As my highlights soaked in, I stared at the tufts of dry hair hanging from my foiled roots. The bottom three inches were frayed and blonder than the rest. The layers I had so optimistically requested two months ago stared back at me demanding answers: Why didn’t you blowdry us more than twice? What, you’re too cool to brush us out after you shower? How dare you tangle us in a wet ponytail and doom us to a snarly rat’s nest at the nape of your neck? WE’RE BETTER THAN THIS.

So I pointed to a picture of Leighton Meester and said “I want that.” And I got it. And it took only five minutes to completely dry.

And it feels lovely.

(And yeah, it’s not even short. But to me, it’s as bold as a pixie cut.)

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