I realize this makes me sound insane. I do, I really really do. But I hate getting my hair cut, and I don’t have a real job, and so I don’t really care all that much what someone may think of me, but there’s more to it than that.
My hair was once gorgeous. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I look back at old photos and realize that it was silky and shiny and red and beautiful. And I shaved it all off because I was sick of being the object of men’s sight. And that’s where I got the nickname bohdel, because I used my own hair to steal the power men felt they had over me. I realize this is a little silly, but it was empowering.
And today, my hair was so dead and full of split ends and harsh. I hate it so much. And the thought of going in and having to chat with a hairdresser for an hour and having a stranger touch me. I couldn’t deal with it.
So I cut my own hair, and not because I don’t have the money for a haircut. I do.
I sort of feel more like myself because of it. Bear with my ridiculous explanation, but there is a part of me that feels a bit more daring about the whole thing. I was the most myself when I didn’t care what people thought and was willing to take risks, when I was wearing my purple coveralls every day. And I wonder who that girl could have grown into. Before I started filing my edges while at the same time unraveling at the core. If I had focused more on the inside and gave up on the outside.
And so part of me is ready to start looking more at my day-to-day decisions in terms of wwBDd. She certainly would have managed to draw every day this week as I had planned. She wouldn’t be ashamed to show things here that weren’t perfect and beautiful (oh, how she loved the idea of wabi sabi). She certainly would have cut her own hair and not felt embarrassed if it looked awful. And she’d rock it, because quite frankly, it looks fairly cute.