[My hair in it's longer, more luxurious days]
I like my hair. I would say that it is probably the physical thing I like most about myself.
Some days I might choose my eyes if you asked--they are a nice shade of blue. But to be honest, I mostly admire the job my mascara is doing when my eyelashes are especially separated and long. It's doing a really good job (seriously, go buy it).
A few years ago, I may have told you that my neck was the best part of me. First, hello, what a great, unique thing to say. I would tell you that because my roommate's semi-boyfriend told me that my neck was really nice. I thought he was a creep (and not just because he told me my neck was nice), but I think he is right. My neck is long, and relatively slim, and the way I hold it may be the last remnant of my 12+ years of ballet. I may or may not have worn my hair up fifty percent more (a conservative estimate) that year--to show off my new favorite part. And his favorite part too I guess, the creep's. Ugh.
I also have a really nice pointer finger nail bed. Don't laugh, I'm being real here--my pointer finger looks especially fabulous with red nail polish. The nail on that finger is just the perfect shape and width for polishing.
But my hair, it's blonde and it has great texture, and it can be straight or wavy or curly or up or down or messy or smooth. Yes, my hair is the best. And yesterday, I got a haircut. My hairs, these hairs that I love, were feeling a little too long and a little too scraggly, so I may have unintentionally implied that I'd like a little more off of the ends than usual.
So now, it's about an inch too short. To me it looks a whole lot shorter than "long." You know?
Dying, you guys.
I'm now one of those crazy girls who almost-cries about her hair. About one little scraggly inch of her hair (that probably needed to be lopped off anyway). There is a whole list of things that I'd prefer to cut off or out of myself, but not my hair.
I'd like to cut off my wrinkled forehead. Or my bored-mean face. Or half of my thighs. Or my impatience. Or my critical thoughts. Scissors, you can have 'em.
My hair was the one though--and I'm bummed and I don't want to be photographed. I'm supposing that I should be learning something grand from all of this trauma. Perhaps I'm supposed to learn to get a grip on vanity, to stop thinking that all the songs are about me. I'm supposed to learn that beauty is more than hair, or that beauty is more than me and my thoughts about it. I'm supposed to learn about confidence, the real kind. I'm supposed to learn that the parts I like best just have to go sometimes, to make way for new and better parts.
Or it could just be that my neck was missing all the attention. Perhaps I'm just supposed to learn to focus on my fingernails.