The something brave was cutting my hair. Yes, I know this is not on par with running for public office or reporting the news in Syria. Still, I’ve worn my hair the same way for roughly two decades, so deciding to change it up some made me uneasy. I found a photo I liked in a style magazine—much shorter than my usual short cut and a bit edgier—and after a month of dithering summoned the courage to take it to my stylist and told him to go for it.
I left the salon an hour and a half later pleased with my new look. The shortness exposed a lot more of my face and felt fresher to me. The stylist had used a little wax or gel to make it a bit spiky (not punk-rocker spiky, just “middle aged woman trying something a little outside her comfort zone” spiky) and I sauntered through the mall feeling pretty edgy.
Well, brave or not, no one but me liked it. My husband said, “You got your hair cut.” A friend said, “You cut your hair.” My mother didn’t comment. All you women out there know that those observations, minus a phrase like “it looks great,” or “I like it” mean “Were you on drugs when you got that cut?”
So, in a very non-courageous way, I let them squelch my pleasure in the haircut and decided not to post a photo of me with my new ’do on this blog. Can you hear the sound of chickens squawking? I can. The cut was three weeks ago, so it’s grown out enough that taking a photo now wouldn’t do any good. I haven’t yet decided if I’ll have it re-cut in the new style or go back to my old style (which I didn’t hate—I just wanted a change).
Regardless, I promise that next time I do something similarly brave, I won’t chicken out of posting a photo, whether or not everyone on the planet thinks I mainline illegal substances before visiting my stylist.