By Claudia Saide | Photography by SUKILYNN
My long hair was my thing for twenty-six years of my life. Everybody always told me that it was soooo beautiful and that the color and texture was soooo perfect and that I should neverrrr cut it. And for twenty-six years I obeyed. I allowed countless hair stylists, friends, my mom, even my husband to dictate how I’d wear my hair for the rest of my life. And the truth is that for about twenty-four of those twenty-six years, I loved it. It was awesome knowing that people envied my absolutely ‘perfect hair’ (shameful to admit, however true) and I totally loved the way it looked too.
But then one day I woke up and I was just over it. I started to feel bothered by the fact that my hair was what defined me. It made me feel, in some weird way, objectified (or maybe that was because I started to get way into Cindy Sherman and Orlan) and suddenly I felt like people were insinuating that I’d be ugly if I’d ever cut it. Then everything about it started to piss me off, from its knottiness, to its habit of becoming flat after a good night’s sleep. I no longer felt like my hair was perfect, and in fact, I really resented it.
So a few months after I had my son Henri, with some heavy persuasion I convinced my beloved hair stylist Mylo to chop it all off. And I never felt so liberated.
Some people may have assumed that I was doing the whole “I’m a mom now I have no time for long hair” thing, but it was nothing like that. I’d waited two years to drum up the courage to finally do it, and I guess after pushing a watermelon out of lemon, I grew some large balls (childbirth can do that to you). But damn did I look good. I was a totally different person and I loved it. I no longer looked like an adolescent, now I looked and felt like an actual mature adult (well, maybe just looked like one, I still often do feel like a child). And all of the people that told me never to cut it (mom, husband included) loved it even more than I did. Now people weren’t telling me never to cut it, they were telling me never to grow it back. And I agreed.
Now I’m starting to miss my long, girly locks. I look at girls with hair down to their butts and think about how that used to be me. I’ve become the envious one. At the same time though, I really am having fun with my short hair. But contrary to what most people think, it’s actually a lot more work than long hair is. It doesn’t always dry well (i.e. It can look big and puffy), and the upkeep is more intense. Sure I used to spend over twenty minutes a day brushing out my long hair (I kid you not), but once that horror was over, it was over. And I guess it did always look good (for the most part anyway).
So now I’m torn. I haven’t trimmed my hair since January (which in short hair years is like, forever) because I can’t decide what to do. I fear the middle stage if I do decide to grow it out, but at the same time look forward to its carelessness. I’d miss the way my short hair looks under a hat, but I’d love the way my long hair looks when piled into a messy bun on top of my head.
I’m seriously confused. I need some advice, so help me will you?