I had hair that reached halfway down my back until one traumatizing Valentine's Day dance, way back in middle school. The boy I had a crush on danced with another girl the entire time, so naturally, I cried buckets in the bathroom until my mom came to pick me up. The next day, instead of getting a trim, I asked the hairdresser for this:
Yeah, my parents had a coronary. I pulled it off pretty well for an eighth grader, although I had to field piles upon piles of hilarious (but still mean, let's face it) comments. My eyes looked bigger. I looked older, maybe pegged for around fifteen years old. The best part: everyone looked at me when I walked into a room. My twenty minute routine turned into a two minute blow-dry, and my head felt so light that I carried it higher.
After a while, though, I was tired of being saluted (Marine reference) and wearing only teeny sparkly clips in my hair (which inevitably fall out), in an effort to "spice things up." How do you spice things up when you have nothing to spice up in the first place? So I moved on to this:
Flapper stage? Lasted a reaaally long time. I fell into a groove of cutting my hair short, letting it grow out, and then cutting it again. So on and so forth. The bob, though, saw the most action and, though it required the largest amount of maintenance for my naturally wavy hair, was probably the most flattering. My eyes still looked big and I looked like a girl: ding ding winner! Until I got sick of all that hair and cut it like this (on the left):
Maybe it was my torrid love affair with Freja Beha Erichsen. I mean, it WAS my torrid love affair with Freja Beha Erichsen. If you're an uncool college student, it only makes sense to idolize a cool fashion model. I wouldn't say I rocked this look.. I more
swayed it. I really loved it, though. When I had this haircut, no one ever bought me drinks or asked me to dance. If I had to walk through a particularly unsafe area of Chicago, I would don Nike dunks and a hoodie in an effort to look like a boy. Short hair made me feel invincible and untouchable in a way that throwing my hair into a ponytail never would.
Now, my hair is past my shoulders for the first time since eighth grade, and I won't allow myself to touch my scissors because I know it will result in a monogamous relationship with a hat. My sister loves haircut #1. My mom prefers haircut #2 ("Don't you want to look feminine?"). I love all three of them, and hence have a problem. What do you think?
What are you doing this weekend, lovelies? After a series of gorgeous (but LOUD - they woke me up two nights in a row) thunderstorms, Chicago is finally brightening up; it's perfect timing for my boyfriend to visit from NY and stroll with me through the Lincoln Park zoo. Let's be honest: I just want to watch penguins and drink lemonade. The boyfriend is just a plus! Here are some links for your weekend:
