Somebody Tell Me What To Do

Like many Canadians who live in the sticks of the Great North, I tend to get a little stir crazy every spring. After spending half a year trapped inside my house strategically sitting next to a furnace vent so that warm air can blow up my ass and keep me warm, I am sick to death of my house and everything in it.

Including the face that has been staring back at me through the mirrors in my house.

Like the walls in my home, I really need a new paint job. Unlike my house, I can't escape the walls because everywhere I go, how I look follows.

Even as a small child, I got bored with how I looked. When I was five I convinced my brother to play barber with me and handed him a pair of scissors as I sat on a tiny wooden chair.

My mom was horrified but oddly enough, I was pleased as punch when I looked in the mirror and discovered my long tresses had been shorn and I now resembled the boy down the street I was crushing on.

Pink suspenders and a green and orange striped tee shirt. Either my mother wanted to punish me or it was the Eighties.

It took years for my hair to grow out since I'm cursed with baby fine wisps that doesn't seem to actually grow. And just when I had started to resemble a girl once more, one of my bestest girlfriends in grade school showed up at school with a pixie cut. It took about a nanosecond for me to decide I wanted my hair cut short too.

Of course, my friend was beautiful and well dressed and looked adorable with short hair. I was the type of girl that wore a red and white striped sweat shirt with matching stirrup pants made out of fleece and wore that darn outfit everyday until it was threadbare. Needless to say, I wasn't quite as cute as my well-put together friend and I learned a valuable lesson in the perils of succumbing to peer pressure.

It's amazing how much my ten year old self looks like my twelve year old son.

My hair grew out just in time for me to hit adolescence. Puberty was not kind to me, nor was the fashion trends at the time. Acid washed jeans? Bangs teased straight up and curled over? Frosted pink lipstick? Half pony tails? A dog wearing a diaper or a goat stuffed into a baptismal dress looks less awkward than I how I wandered around in my youth.

Remind me never to tease my children about how awkward they look. People in glass houses and all...

Thankfully, I survived puberty and discovered the value of mirrors along the way. But it wasn't long into adulthood that I was once again itching to change my look. And thus began a cycle I repeated during the entire decade of my twenties.

I'd cut my hair off, dye it, grow it out, dye it again and then repeat the entire cycle.

What can I say? Carrot Top inspired me.

I actually liked the brunette look...until the color fell out and my hair turned green.

My personal favourite: The Oreo Cookie look. My husband still teases me about this haircut.

This cut was referred to as the Oreo Killer. Or the marital saver.

I spent my entire twenties playing around with hair styles and colours and never once found a look I loved enough to trademark as my own. And then my son died. My hair was short and brown. I remember coming home from the funeral and looking into the mirror and not recognizing myself.

So I stopped messing with my hair and let it grow out. I was thirty years old and broken. My hair was the last of my concerns when my entire identity was buried alongside my almost five year old son.

Somethings never change. As I type this, my dog is on my shoulder.

Over the last five years, I've worn my hair up, down, curly, straight, in pig tails, in twists and stuffed under a ball cap, yet it always feels like it looks the same.  Looking back through the photos documenting my life, this is the longest I've ever sported the same hairstyle in my entire life.

My heart must be healing because I'm starting to twitch about my hair and eye the craft scissors in the junk drawer.

My husband emphatically prefers my hair long and naturally blonde. However, I'm less convinced his preference has less to do with my esthetics and more about the state of his bank account.

But after five years of the same hair style, I'm wondering, perhaps it is time for a change?

Photo courtesy of Mr. Lady

As I near my 35th birthday, perhaps it's time to let go of some of my baggage, starting with my hair.

Or maybe I need to accept the fact my youth is fleeting and the only thing I'm going to accomplish by cutting my hair off is pissing off my husband and scaring Jumby.

Long hair is a pain in the arse. Short hair highlights chin whiskers.

To cut or not to cut, that is my question.

What do you think? Care to share the worst hair cut decision you've ever made?