My hair numbers are 10, 5, 3, 2, and 1.
10 – The number of years I’ve had the same hairstyle, the only aspect that has varied was the length.
5 – The number of years since I’ve had a haircut. My once shoulder length “bob” is now shoulder-blade length.
3 – The number of years since I’ve colored my hair, opting to embrace the grays (only, as the odd sort they are, the grays have yet to appear in bulk. not that I’m complaining…)
I fathomed these numbers to be a result of complacency. A kind of self-depreciating, I’m married, older, and comfortable in my low-maintenance ways. A place I imagine many 40-something moms dawdle.
2 – The number of reasons I must exit my comfortable meandering garden stroll of complacency.
My thick hair is totally weighing me down and when it’s wet, I feel like I have an extra limb. As swimming in the summer is my number one recreation, this simply will not do.
I’ve often thought about and admired others who donated hair to organization that manufacture wigs for cancer patients. The thought buzzed in my mind last month and when I took out a ruler, I realized my hair was a suitable length. As requirements include non-colored, healthy hair with less-than-five-percent gray, this would likely be one chance and the last chance in my lifetime that I’d have the opportunity to give this gift.
1 – The fear I have about getting 10 inches cut off of my hair and transitioning to a brand new style.
As I’m a fairly low-maintenance, laid-back woodsy-kinda-gal, it didn’t occur to me that the notion of lopping off nearly a foot length of hair would tap into some deep rooted fear.
My mind races with questions like: “What if it turns out ultra short?” “What if I hate my new hairstyle?” “What if my double chin looks like it had triplets?” – and the real whammy: “What if I look older?”
This 40-something me is admittedly struggling slightly with the aging process my body continues to journey towards without my expressed consent.
Silly, irrational, muckity-muck-muck fears of what ultimately boils down to a singular fear of embracing dramatic change and losing one’s identity.
I’ve carried this drapery with me for a decade embracing its simplicity and ease of maintenance. Who will I be with short hair?
Well, of course I will be me… but yet, maybe a lighter, carefree version of self. One who has hopefully helped to make a positive difference by donating this little part of myself.
My hair will grow back. This opportunity will never come around again in my lifetime. And soon the fear will be quelled as I say good-bye to the silly notions attempting to ground me.
In a way, I’m looking forward to this next step of metamorphosis. I’m looking forward to meeting the new me…