I got a bad haircut.
Actually, I got an incredible, luxurious, skilled haircut, but I hate it. And it is destroying me.
I know, I know. You think I'm overreacting. And I agree! How could such a marginal difference (literally no one has taken notice or made a single comment) have such a massive impact on my life? How?!?
But it has. And I refuse to believe that this is a condition specific to me. It very well may be specific to the so-called first world, but not to me in particular. It feels like the Grinch came under the cover of night and stole my hair. My thick, strong, ambiguously Eastern-European locks were shredded and sheared within an inch of their life so I'm left looking like some thin haired basic who feels cultured when she eats sushi. Kill me.
He stole a part of my identity when he stole my hair. (You may find it to be misused, but I'm sticking with my verb). This may sound weird, but I've never really felt like I had "white" hair. I never rocked the blond hair blue eyes thing, nor did I really want to. My hair was this rich, dark brown, fuller and shinier than that of the other girls in my classes. Was it spectacularly different? No. But I felt a part of my family history, of my culture, in this defining difference.
So not only am I just aesthetically dissatisfied, I actually feel as though I've lost a part of myself. And how could I not? People have been commenting on my hair and my eyes since I've understood English, and potentially before. My bowl cut of childhood could have actually served as a soup bowl for someone down on their luck. It was that substantial. And now I'm left with a third of the thickness and some exponentially smaller portion of my confidence. And I know that is not the way a grown woman should respond when things don't go her way, but it is. Sue me.
The point is that we internalize how people see us. My parents never put a high value on beauty. That's probably in part because we don't collectively look like we just walked off a J Crew catalogue shoot, and also because, and I REALLY believe this, there are no fewer than a billion things that are more important than the way you look. And believing that doesn't mean that I can't enjoy putting together a good outfit in the morning, or care about the way I look in a bathing suit. It just means that the things that I do like about my appearance tend to count double, because I really care about so few of them, and I'm not ready to loose the hair. I know that at the end of the day what's inside my head counts more, but I also know that the confidence that I derive from liking the way I look, from looking like I have my shit together, impacts the way that people receive me and my ideas.
It is, of course, entirely possible that the magnitude of my reaction is a projection of these other big life changes on the horizon. I'm moving countries, moving states, starting a new job, starting a new life for what feels like the fourth time in 6 years. Is that a part of the "catastrophic" cut? I'm not ruling it out. But I retain the right to freak out about whatever I like.
So whether it's a bad haircut or 3 lbs of waterweight or a bad grade on an exam, let me have this one. Sometimes its just SOO much easier than confronting the real thing, and so much more therapeutic as well. I'll continue to do my pre-work and make packing lists and not freak out about what I've gotten myself into, but asking me to not have any crisis at all...? What do you want from me? I'm only 24.
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