I chopped off my hair today. Well, that sentence is not entirely accurate. I paid somebody else to chop off my hair, and this occurred about 12 hours ago, which was technically yesterday. My hair tickled my elbows when I brushed my teeth this morning; now the ends curve around my earlobes, gracing the angle of my mandible. It kind of looks like ass, but thankfully I don't really care. I had brought a picture of myself with a superimposed shorter 'do (the wonders of the internet) in order to guide her, and of course my hair looks nothing like that picture at all. Strangely enough, the hairdresser looked rather uncomfortable when I told her how short I wanted to cut it. She kept asking me how long I had thought about it and whether I was sure I wanted to do it. I wasn't the least bit conflicted. I associate long overgrown hair with depression. I look back at photos of myself, and inevitably, my hair was longest during those episodes when I was most depressed...my high school graduation, my college graduation, etc. And as I ease myself out of depression, I always chop off my hair in a symbolic gesture of cutting myself free from the bonds of the past. Or starting anew. I haven't been truly depressed for awhile now, but it still feels liberating to get rid of that thick long messy burden of hair, although it was definitely more flattering than my current haircut. Mais n'importe quoi. Hair grows back. Wounds heal. Seasons change. Turn, turn, turn.

I told my mother about my haircut and she asked whether I had saved the hair. I replied in the negative and she cried out, "But I told you to save it!" I had no recollection of this. Apparently there is some kid with cancer in my hometown and she wanted to donate my hair to him or her. Ah well. Instead those six or so inches have been swept up from the floor of the salon and are likely in a garbage bag chillin' with rubber bands and sponges and tissues. I'm sure the kid would want prettier, less obnoxious hair than mine anyway. If she had a choice.