It all started when I was 3. And had thick, thick bangs. One day I must have decided it was all too much hair flopping around on my forehead, and I found some scissors and snip by snip managed to cut off all evidence. Since I can’t remember what it’s like inside 3-year-old Kristin’s head, I can’t say exactly why I took the scissors to my bangs. Curiosity? Rebellion? I had no idea what I was doing and it didn’t mean anything? Who knows. But ultimately it wasn’t a big deal. My mom probably had to answer the “Oh my! What happened?” question a million times (sorry, Sue!), but all in all I was still pretty much owning the look:
Fast forward to Mt. View High School. I’m an awkward and self-conscious Junior taking AP classes and just trying to be normal! Blend in! No one look at me, please! I think it goes without saying that the last thing I needed was a terrible haircut to draw attention to me. (I mean, that’s the last thing any teenager needs.) We all know where this is going, but I’ll share the gory details anyway. One day while I was standing in front of the bathroom mirror, it suddenly felt like a brilliant and rebellious and bold idea to cut my own hair. I took my long blondish, brownish hair in my hands, and I began chopping away. One chunk at a time. Cut after cut. Until there was a huge pile of hair on the floor and only a few precious inches left on my head. Layers. And chunks. And then the overwhelmingly, deep, devastating horror that comes when you realize you’ve just done something that can’t be undone. There are only so many hats you can wear. And so many hours you can spend in front of the mirror trying to convince yourself that it’s ndb. All you can really do is wait it out. Pictures exist of this time in my life, but I just can’t. It’s too soon.
Again, I wish I could say that the high power of teenage self-consciousness was finally able to cure me of the compulsion. But wait.
Fast forward to yesterday afternoon. It’s 2015 and I’m a 28-year-old adult with a full-time job and a house and my life together. And somehow, again, I find myself in front of the bathroom mirror, scissors in hand, and cutting my own hair feels like a really solid plan. To be fair, about two months ago I gave myself a haircut. And it actually turned out pretty well. I only took a few inches off, added a few layers, and it mostly looked normal. So, the idea of a haircut wasn’t as crazy and rebellious as it was back in high school. But as I took the first cut, I had that sinking feeling. The this-is-a-terrible-mistake-but-now-I've-done-it-and-there's-no-turning-back feeling. I cut an inch off. Then an inch became two. Then layers became higher. And weirder. And then I put the scissors down and realized that it was all wrong. That I wanted my hair back. That I’d made a huge mistake. I spent at least an hour washing it, blow drying it, straightening it, curling it, and straitening it again, trying to find something that looks normal. It’s no use. I don’t mean to be dramatic, but I hate absolutely everything about it, and I want my two inches back, and I never want to leave my house again.
25 years later and some things never change. See you in a month. (Or two.)