"A woman's hair is her crowning glory."
I suppose that COULD be true. Hair is a funny thing. It's amazing how much we tend to hold on to it. A security blanket that we place a lot of stock in. Bad hair days giving us strife, good ones giving us confidence.
For the last three years I had tried to grow out my hair.
"I don't want to let myself go", I thought, after having Jack. Growing out my hair seemed like the right route to take to ensure that. Because long hair meant effort. It meant options. I clung to it, thinking it made me sexier, less "mom-like".
I dyed it red. A color of confidence, whether I truly had it or not. Turning the bathtub into a horror movie scene every three months or so, I changed my hairs chemistry and swore that, in turn, it changed mine.
I walked into the salon ready. I had had enough. I handed the hairdresser my desired hairstyle and she went to work. Down, one by one, inches worth of hair fell. Freeing up my shoulders, taking away damaged hair and split ends I would be found picking at like a fiend. I breathed.
I've carried a lot on my head the last three years. Growing things out all around. Changing, learning, pushing forward to get to a place that I can look upon with a smile, contentment, pride.
She clipped away, for about forty minutes she worked, cutting away piece after piece, examining and cutting again. And when it was over I smiled, thanked her, tipped her and headed to my car.
"I let myself go" I thought, only this time it meant something entirely different. I freed up my back, my neck, my shoulders, yes, but I also freed up myself. I felt more womanly than I have in a long time. I wasn't hiding behind anything anymore.
And I'm not hiding behind anything anymore. Not even myself.