In which I have an intervention
I had an intervention. It happened to me. I didn't know I had a problem, but my nearest and dearest sat me down over the weekend and let me have an earful.
"Your hair needs to go," one said. "You don't look like Bron with long hair," said another. "I saw some of you latest pictures, and you looked - well - old," said another.
"We're going to cut it," said the hairdresser who also happens to be my best friend.
It was six against one, I was the odd one out, everyone else wanted me to get the chop.
"But I've only just started growing it!" I yelped.
They kept heckling at me throughout the night. The more I thought about it, the more I realised that although I liked the idea of me with long hair, the practicalities of it weren't amazing.
I had recently discovered how horrible knots are. It took ages to dry. I only liked to wear it out when it was styled - a rare event which took ages to get right. I had taken to wearing it almost every day in a high ponytail for ease, plus I prefer how I look with my hair off my face. "Then isn't that the perfect reason you should cut it off?", my friends asked. "To get it out of your face?"
I like to think I'm stubborn, headstrong and free-willed, but sometimes you have to listen to your loved ones. Especially when they're right. And so the morning after a late night of good food and dancing, the mop was lopped.
If you've ever gone for a sudden and dramatic hair change, then you'll know how I feel. Over the last few days I've run through every one of the five stages of loss and mourning. The first morning I woke with short hair I couldn't believe it. I kept going to tighten my ponytail only to realise it wasn't there anymore.
Then came the anger - the same anyone has the morning after a visit to the hairdresser. It looked so good when I left the salon, but what do I do with it now?
The bargaining came in the form of scheming ways in which I could wear hair extensions. After seeing how great Kim Crossman's ones were I was a little more than jealous. Then came a kooky form of depression - without makeup I felt like a boy. For someone who doesn't wear a lot makeup this was depressing.
But then, as the last and final stage of mourning passed, I began to accept my hair in all its quirks and androgyny. I've got over myself by having fun with earrings again, and puddling about awkwardly in slightly more feminine clothes.
I've now settled back into my old short-haired self, and funnily enough (although they'll be the first to tell you so), my girlfriends were right. Being short feels more like me. It's an interesting (and somewhat awful) journey growing your hair out, and while I don't wish it on anybody, apparently the payoffs at the end look nice. I couldn't tell you, I never quite got there.
So would I ever grow my hair again? Sure. Probably. One day, when I'm 50. Or if I get a knock to the head and garner a sudden affinity for pink and flouncy things. In the mean time, sorry guys - you're stuck with a muppet with a short and scruffy do.
This hysterical matching suit is by new Kiwi label Thing Thing. My body is a woodland setting. I have Flopsy and Mopsy on my tummy, and Squirrel Nutkin and Cotton-tail on my crotch. You can get it here, here and here. Not my crotch silly, the clothing.
Photos thanks to Richard Symons.
Happy Wednesday people!
Oh and P to the S, had a really fun (read crazy-hyper-too-much-fizzy-pop) day playing dress-ups with the team at Glassons yesterday. See evidence of the mayhem here. Please don't sue me.