The last time I cut my tresses a length anywhere near my shoulders I was in the ninth grade. A time before Brazilian Blowouts, straightening irons or the genius that is The Drybar. Thanks to my abnormally thick mane, this moment in hair history was marked by frizz, a mushroom silhouette and more bumps in the back than a shopping mall parking lot. I like to call it my Grace Coddington moment (only less chic).
Needless to say, walking around like I spent the morning with my finger in an electrical socket wasn’t my proudest hair moment and I haven’t made such a drastic change since. That’s not to say I haven’t constantly made the effort to give myself an edgier ‘do. I have. I considered going brown my senior year of high school. In college, all I wanted was a chop a la Carrie Bradshaw in Season 4 of Sex and the City. Then came my quarter-life obsession with the ombre. Truth be told, my entire life I have been grasping at anything to break me out of my long blonde rut. But finding a stylist who matched my enthusiasm when it came to experimenting with the ultra thick bleached naturally curly mop on my head was more of a challenge than anticipated. So I did nothing for over ten years.
And then two weeks ago, without hope or agenda, I walked into a salon in Dallas I had never been to, met with a hair stylist I had never spoken to, and chopped all of my hair off. So far, I’m feeling pretty good about it. But call me in six weeks.
– Lynsey Eaton
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