I had a SERIOUS hair cut almost exactly ten years ago. When I say ‘serious’, I don’t mean that it made me look like an office worker or that it gave me a studious vibe – I mean I had a lot chopped off. It was a trim and a half, a trip to the salon that would result in a few raised eyebrows and several “Oh my god!”s when I arrived back at school.
Sick of straightening an unruly mop, I’d opted for what could only be described as a duck-butt (Google it, I’m sure some kids in your year had it too. Probably the ones you threw stuff at during your lunchbreak). I used my brother’s hair wax to keep it bouncy but soon realised that my hair styling skills weren’t so hot when a boy in my class named George kindly pointed out that I had really attractive globs of glue-like wax stuck to the back of my head most days.
After a while I got bored of this style too and decided that all I could do was wait for my hair to grow back again. So I waited. And waited. And before I knew it I had hair down to my waist. It’s been this way for years now – I’m well-versed in all things Rapunzel. But having long hair can be a royal pain in the ass.
The absolute worst are the hairballs that appear ALL OVER THE HOUSE. I sit on the floor to read a book or cry over life’s injustices and what am I greeted by? Bloody clumps of my own hair that have somehow joined together to create a gross brown THING closely resembling a spider. These clumps struggle to find their way up the vacuum cleaner. They like to live on the floor. Occasionally they attach themselves to my sock and I think I might be sick. I think they are the only reason my mum really wanted me to move out of her home – the carpet is a lot nicer since I left, you know?
I also have nightmares about someone cutting my hair, probably due to the time SOMEONE ACTUALLY DID CUT MY HAIR AND RUINED IT. This wasn’t the duck-butt occasion – it was in 2013, a simpler time when having ‘princess hair’ was a very real priority for me. I knew I had split ends. I knew I needed a trim. But I was not prepared for the emotional trauma that was to come. I ended up with half of my hair on the floor of the salon and a week-and-a-half of disturbed sleep because I couldn’t stop crying. I felt like Aslan the lion when they sheared him, which I know is an awful thing to say because he is supposed to be a metaphor for Jesus. But still.
Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and feel around for my hair, to check it was just a bad dream and that no-one has actually broken into my house with the sole purpose of attacking my mane with a pair of scissors. I can normally tell it’s still there, though, because I am lying on it and then struggle to move. Sometimes my boyfriend lies on it, too, and I have to poke him and say YOU’RE ON MY HAIR! PLEASE MOVE. I wonder if I should just tie it up in a bun.
Have you ever tried to use your hair as a scarf? It doesn’t really keep the cold out but when hair gets to the scarf stage you know it’s REALLY long. Occasionally I think about how much I’d be paid if I chopped it all off and sold it to an evil extension/wig maker called Claude. Probably not very much.
I went to the hairdresser yesterday and my hair was so long that I had to stand up to have it cut. I felt a little bit like the creepy girl we all knew in Year 3 who was obsessed with growing her hair to hip-length and looked a bit like a deranged pony. I had some layers put in and I keep looking at them in the mirror today because I don’t like them. Does anyone really love their hair? I’m attached to mine but not because I’m big on it. I’m just used to it, like I’m used to eating cheese sandwiches for lunch at work. They’re not fantastic but I’m not sure I have the creativity or energy to branch out right now.
SOPHIE JO 