I haven't had short hair since a very unfortunate haircut in fourth grade. (That's 25 years ago, for those of you who are working through the math.) My hair hasn't been shorter than shoulder-length in more than two decades and I haven't had so much as a trim in two years.
The answer is simple: Some people need the hair more than I do.
Still, it would be hard parting with a piece of myself. I'd grown attached to that hair! (Pardon my puns. I didn't get much sleep last night, and I've had 2 mimosas and 2 cups of coffee... Moving on...)
My mid-morning thoughts were a loop of:
It will be hard to watch all that hair go.
I'll look funny for months until it grows out.
I'm going to have triangle-hair that looks like Marge Simpson's sisters, or worse, I'll look like Kojak.*
Maybe I should postpone?
Then, during my lunch break, I logged in to Facebook in hopes of seeing a baby announcement from a good friend of mine.
Instead I saw tragedy.
Unspeakable horror in Connecticut.
I cried, as so many people did.
By comparison, my fears of looking like Telly Savalas were utterly trivial. Families were grieving.
By going through with the chop, a child somewhere, suffering the side effects of chemo, would be two snips and one step closer to getting a wig.
I made the cut (with the help of a lovely stylist, Camy, at London W1 in Pensacola).
|... and after.|