November 14, 2011


Left: What I looked like when I left the office on Thursday. Right: What I looked like when I came in this morning. Via Photobooth.

For the last eight or nine years, my hair maintenance routine has consisted of me, on about a monthly basis, buzzing my head down with a #3 clipper alone in my bathroom. Usually on a whim, usually after one or two glasses of wine, usually after Googling pictures of Amber Rose. Sometimes I would give myself a mohawk and walk around pretending to be a badass for a few minutes.

I love having short hair. I love the convenience (and cost efficiency) of cutting my own hair. I love the time I save by never really having to style it. I love the statement it makes - from all the widely varying reactions I've received from strangers over the years, it's obvious that there are still deeply-rooted paradigms surrounding women's hair, and what they should and should not do with it.

But I also love change. And after eight or nine years of having the same hairstyle, I've grown a bit bored. (Kind of like when I gauged my ears out so large, that "normal" earrings started to look fresh and daring. Oh, teenager Liz. So mercurial.)

So - about a month ago, I made an appointment at the highly-recommended Rock Paper Scissors Salon in downtown Durham. I walked in with more hair than I have had in years, and walked out with what I call my "real-life adult haircut." My stylist cut the back and sides short, left some length on the front and top, and thinned everything out. I love it because I still don't have to style it, it's a new look that has room for growth (pun intended), and best of all, I don't look like I'm wearing a fur-coat-mullet on my head.

Just like a real-life adult.