I have long hair. The length of my hair is, in fact, currently equal to the length of my leg: 30 inches. That's ankle to groin for the leg, crown to ends for the hair. "Tail bone length," in the shorthand of The Long Hair Community (A friendship-based community for those with a common goal of growing and maintaining long, healthy-looking hair. [This is the Internet. Don't even pretend you're surprised that such a thing exists.])
I've had long hair most of my life for one simple reason: it never, ever even crosses my mind to go get a haircut. For some reason, the Shortening Of The Hair just never took its place in my consciousness as something that one might do on a regular basis. I've cut it short or even super-short from time to time over the years, but haircut maintenance being absent from my skill list, it grows back out again. I tell you one thing, I've learned not to go for bangs.
Obviously, I do like long hair. It's not like I would be incapable of keeping it short, if that were important to me. But long hair is comfortable for me. It's normal. It's part of my identity, and has been for the bulk of my adolescent and adult life.
Still, this is the longest I've ever had it. As much as I like it, it has crossed some kind of a threshold and is not incapable of getting in the way. I once told someone that toilet-length hair would be a deal-breaker for me. There haven't been any incidents, but the potential is there.
So while I do like it, I'm also not that attached to it - apart from in the obvious sense. I could cut it without too many regrets. I mean, it's just going to grow back out, right?
Alex wants me to cut it, more so now that it's this long than in times past. He's taken to pointing out pictures on billboards or actresses in the videos we rent. "What do you think of her hair?" Recently I came home from doing a bunch of errands and he asked if I had seen any beauty parlors I liked the looks of. (Is that what they're called? Or are they salons?...See? I don't even know the terminology.)
Now, it seems like an easy answer, right? I'm admittedly open to the idea, and it would make him happy. But here's the thing.
Tangential anecdote:
I joined the gym last March because it seemed like a healthy thing to do. My neighbor told me about it and the original thought was for us to go together, carpooling to drop off our kids at school and then going down to the gym. Then she changed jobs and ended up quitting before I even joined. But when she told me that high speed Internet was finally available on our street, I was so happy about that I figured I'd go ahead and sign up for the gym as well. My thought was, exercise is good, let's go get some exercise.
As unlikely as it sounds, I never actually considered the whole losing weight end of it but, of course, lose I did.
All of this went on while Alex was working in the States. He knew I was going to the gym and had asked if was seeing any difference. I said, not a radical one, but I think I look good. Other people had noticed I was getting in shape and I looked forward to his moving back home, by which time I had been exercising regularly for nearly six months.
I picked out a good-looking outfit when I went to pick him up at the airport. And then I waited. Wanna know what he said about my appearance as we drove out of the parking garage? He said, "Wow, you have a lot more gray hairs. Did your Mom notice them when she was here?"
First time he saw me in the stretchy workout clothes? Nothing. First time he saw me out of them? Nothing.
Fine. I didn't do this for him. I'm happy with the results and that's what matters, right? Well, I kept telling myself that, but in reality that wasn't all that mattered.
Finally (when he'd been home a week) I told him I had really hoped for some small comment. Wanna know what he said? He said, "I told you you looked good."
Well, no he didn't, but you can't tell him that.
Three months almost to the day after his return, I walked into a room and he took my hand, turned me around, looked at me and said it: You look good.
So you can see where I'm reluctant to make changes on the basis of someone else liking it.
My basic nature is inclined to cut the hair because I know he'll like it. On the other hand, well, everything I just said.
If I were an Internet rock star like
Fussy or
Finslippy, I would hold an election and let the Internet decide. But there are only about, what? Like ten or twelve of you out there. Still, let's put it to a vote.
Haircut: Yes or no?
If yes: How short?
Let's hear it, people. Casual visitors also welcome to weigh in!
(Oh, and one other thing. Why is it that, unless one of my parents travels to Central America and happens to photograph me from behind, nobody in my life will simply come up and tell me that I'm wearing ill-fitting jeans? This is not the first time this has happened.)
