As some have noted, my hair had surpassed ass-long in recent days. Hadn't been cut in a galaxy of years. There's some saying about dogs always being however many meals away from being a wolf. Well, my hair was however many shampoos away from being dreadlocks. Any given day it might have been smooth, freshly brushed waves, or a tangle of bed-head that would usually be accompanied by bedsores. Recently though, it was most frequently found in a functional, utilitarian bun. The bun arrived on the scene innocently enough.. I'm not one for curling irons or rollers, and bunning the hair in the morning was an easy way to have curly hair by the afternoon. Then sometimes it'd just be so hot, and the bun was cooler. Then sometimes I'd forget to take it down, even when it wasn't. Then the bun was just.. easier. The more hours of the day it was up, the less tangled it would be at day's end. The fresher it would be with that shampoo smell... For that hour or so I let it down, only to pack it all away again when it invariably got stuck/tangled to my clothing and/or jewelry/under me/to the people around me. The bun had taken over the time-share.
Then there was the dying. I'd long-since reached the point of double-boxing due to the sheer volume of hair. The last foot or so had been through so many dyes, the consistency was getting resilient. Or over-porous, or too fried, whatever it is that causes some hair to get merely tinted while the fresher portions get soaked and coated. So in order to keep the color, I had to dye more, but if I dyed more, the faster the rest would have crapped out, pardon my French. So the color saturation began, inch by inch, step by step, to dwindle.
But still, breached quality and toned down color paled in comparison with the feeling of my hair brushing across the top of my ass when I got out of bed. (Or got into bed.. or the shower.. or got up for a soda at 3 in the afternoon.. etc etc.) Not simply physical, it was a highly emotional sensation. (Elaborating on that point would be an unpleasantly frank patch of bizarre exposition, so suffice to say my feelings of identity will always be tightly wound around my hair.) Yes, even for that year I was changing the cut and color up to three times a month.
So yeah.. as I was saying. The Hair Empire was starting to crumble. The parasitic bun. The fading color. A certain run in that filled me with an urge to look different. I'm not 100% on this, but I'm fairly sure the final brick was loosened a week or two ago when we went to the zoo, and later in the day when I was awaiting pics I couldn't remember remotely what position my hair was in during the time we were there. (It was the Double-Looped Ponytail, aesthetically superior cousin to the Bun.) I figured if I can't even place it in my mind, it isn't benefiting me anymore. Click.
I made plans to have a friend help me over the weekend, but overlapping plans put that off. Sunday afternoon saw me bumming around, staring into =_= thinking "Why not?" After being both accepted as the best idea ever and dismissed as unnecessary impatience, Siamang mentioned he was going to be in my area for a while for some unrelated business. The details are hazy, but a question was asked, or a suggestion was made, words happened and then happened again, and he was coming over to do the chop.
How did this happen? When was I reduced to such a wickedly unwise state? When did I get such an awesomely amazing haircut? It feels so short. It looks even shorter. When I turn my head to check it out in the main mirrors it barely skims my shoulders. The cut pieces look so much way too short, compared to the distance between the old and new lengths.
And I haven't even felt a twinge of cutter's remorse.