Back in July I was lounging around our beach house reading InStyle with Anne Hathaway on the cover when I had a revelation.
"I want to cut my hair short," I proclaimed aloud to my sister.
"Like how short?"
"Like to here..." and illustrated the length that came just below the nape of my neck.
"I think you'll miss it."
"I think I want to do it."
Accustomed to my whims, my sister ignored me. She probably thought I'd get bored with the idea, realize that I love my long hair and let it go.
But I am impulsive to a certain point. The next day on the beach I called my salon to make an appointment.
"Thank you for calling the James Joseph Studio."
"Hi I need to make an appointment for a cut and color."
"Ok..."
*Extended pause where I was supposed to say when I wanted to come in*
"Wh-what time would you like to come in?"
Oh God. Did I really want to do this? I'd been growing my hair for so long!
*Deep breath* "I've been growing my hair out since 2003 and I want to cut it short so I really need someone who is experienced with cutting long hair into short hair and I need someone who is nice. And cool." *exhale*
"Ok hon. Well Kylene is really good. And she has an opening on Tuesday at 6pm."
"Perfect!" I hung up the phone and basked in the sun, my ponytail drooping over the beach chair.
"Oh, honey, I'm glad you're gonna cut your hair." That was my mother, The Donna. The Donna hates long hair. When I was in second grade she had my hair chopped to boy short length. When I went into school the day after my hair slaughter, the kids asked me if I had a sex change operation over night because I looked like a boy. I cried for a month straight.

Dance recital circa 1986. My sister (L)
and I (R) rocking out our bowl cuts.

My childhood had been a series of bowl cuts and/or close cut crops. If you look at Polaroids of me you can't really tell if I'm a boy or a girl. I always imagine the awkwardness strangers must have felt when they came up to me, saw me with my short hair and dressed in a white shirt and brown corduroys and not knowing what gender I was. Sort of when you see a newborn baby dressed in yellow. You ask the parents, "What's its name?" I often wonder if my mother ever got that when I was around.
I tried to get into the long hair phase but then the curse of Friends arrived and everyone was getting the "Rachel." Caving to peer pressure, I too instructed my hairdresser to give me the Rachel. Little did I realize that I had a round face and hair that mushroomed in the humidity and not a personal hair stylist to fix it for me. The Rachel shag was a disaster and I vowed that I would never cut my hair again. Until my senior year of college. Again, on another whim I went to a random salon and the guy cut my hair into the shape of a football helmet. That's when I really vowed to never cut my hair short again. Until now.