First, let me clarify. I did not cut my hair. My friend, a very talented stylist, cut my hair in what ended up being a 1 1/2 hour, 4-razor battle with about three pounds of dense, dark, (reclaimed) virgin Asian hair. Yes, reclaiming your hair’s virginity is a thing. I checked. I went from tresses reaching more than half-way down my back to what I call the “Low Commitment Pixie Cut.” The hair is gone; it’s not going back on. The low commitment level lies simply in the fact that when I want to have a long-hair-girl moment I can tuck little locks of hair behind my ears and feel for those two seconds that all is well after trying (and failing) to stick a pen into the base of a phantom ponytail. Oops.
Now that that is cleared up, my motivations. A lot of people have asked me why I’ve cut my hair, like I had just been caught stealing answers to the SAT though I get stellar grades in school. Naturally, in either scenario I would answer, “Because Chris Evans and Scarlett Johansson were there.” One friend brought up the reason many women have for cutting their hair drastically or shaving their head: a bad break up. Well, I have been through a few “break ups” this year, but the only one that could merit any sort of image overhaul would be my clean but stressful break up with academia. But that’s another story. Or five.
So, here’s the real reason(s) I cut my hair, folks.
I wanted to. I have a cute face. I wanted to. I like myself. I wanted to. I’ve never had hair this short before. I wanted to. I needed an excuse for people to touch my head. I wanted to. My shampoo is expensive. I wanted to. I have an inner 12 year-old boy named Darron. I wanted to. #Iwantedto