jennifer's story

my typical monday weekend update has been pushed back 'til tomorrow, because i have the pleasure of posting another story for the series.

i came across jennifer's blog when kal linked her for purchasing one of her pieces of tiny art. upon first visit, i gobbled it all up. even though she's got a few other projects goin on in her busy life right now that keep her from posting regularly, there's more than enough great stories and old posts to keep a girl busy for a good long while. she's a super talented writer with a kickin sense of humour, and is the epitome of bloggy crush.

without further adieu - jennifer's story.

When I was thinking about what story I wanted to share with you, it suddenly occurred to me that this year marks a significant anniversary for me: ten years ago, I chopped off my hair.

Before the cut, my hair was coarse and thick, with a barely perceptible wave, and hung several inches past my shoulders. It had been more or less the same my whole life, with slight variations – a rolled-under-bangs phase in high school, a spiral perm in college, and a big, loose curls period that required a thick-barreled extra-hot curling iron. I was tired of spending hours trying to get it just right, tired of pulling it into a ponytail out of frustration, tired of all the products and gadgets that cluttered my bathroom counter.

And so, one sunny morning in early summer, I marched into a salon in Los Gatos, California, and asked a stylist to cut it off.

“How short to you want it?” she asked.

“Really short,” I replied. “Like an inch or two long.”

She wasn’t convinced. “How about if we start with a few inches, and see how you feel,” she said.

“Okay,” I smiled, “but I’ve made up my mind.”

Her scissor blades made thick slicing sounds as chunks of my hair fell to the floor. A few stray pieces floated in the air and stuck to my lip gloss. I glanced down; three inches of mousy brown hair lay at my feet.

The stylist hovered over me. “Are you okay?” she said, biting her lip.

“Yes,” I laughed. “Keep going.”

She snipped the next three inches. More stray hairs clung to my lips, and now I had a bob. I could have asked the stylist to stop and curl it into a pageboy, but: I could feel a breeze tickle the back of my neck.

“More,” I said, in response to her question.

Finally, when most of my hair was scattered on the floor around my feet, I ran my fingers through the short tufts that remained; I shook my head, amazed at how light my neck felt. When I stood up to brush the last bit of hair off of my cape, everyone in the salon cheered.

I didn’t walk out of the salon that afternoon – I floated. I felt free, strong, invincible. Is this what boys wake up feeling like every day? I wondered. How have they kept this a secret all these years?

Ten years later, I’m still wearing my hair in the same boyish style. Sometimes I look at women with gorgeous long hair – sleek and straight, lustrous and wavy, or shiny and curly – and I feel a pang of envy. Then I remember all the things I love about this cut: I don’t own a comb. Or a blow dryer. It takes me all of five minutes to get my hair “walk out the door” ready. I can’t imagine going back to the wash/dry/style/fuss routine.

But most of all, I keep my hair short because of this: every five or six weeks, when I walk out of the swanky San Francisco salon where I go to get it trimmed, I feel that same sense of freedom and invincibility that I felt that first day I got my hair cut. I wish I could bottle that sensation and bathe in it every day.

Though I have been thinking that it might be fun to get a wig… just for fun. Every decade or so, a girl should shake it up. Don’t you think?

everybody has a story. i'd love for you to tell me yours. if you have something to share, email me and let's talk!