Snip, Snip.

My complicated relationship with my hair has been well documented in this blog and in my blogs of yore (RIP, MySpace).

I tend to make some pretty swift decisions when it comes to cutting my hair. 

Such as pausing a movie so that I may go into the bathroom to cut my bangs just because I loved the main character's bangs.  

Or dyeing my hair all black because I thought it would make me look tough. Tough. I actually wanted to look tough. Oh middle school. I do not miss thee. 

These swift decisions are why instead of looking like this:

I now look like this. 

All last week I was completely jonesing for a haircut. Usually in the mornings when I was trying to comb out the rat's nest that developed each night. 

I wanted a hair cut every time I curled my hair or put it up in a fancy style only to have it immediately fall down as soon as I stepped away from the bathroom. 

I wanted a hair cut every time I zipped my hair into my coat. And every time I woke up late and knew I would have to go to work with partially wet hair or not wash it and look dirty. 

But I kept stopping myself because I thought "Think of how hard you worked to get your hair this long."

And about a week ago, I realized something.

I had done nothing to get my hair this long. In fact, doing nothing is why my hair was long in the first place. 

There are three types of people who purposely grow their hair out.

1. Brides

2. Soon to be graduates.

3. Members of bands. 

That is it. Everyone else has actual life goals. 

My accomplishment of having really long hair was nothing more than my own laziness. 

So immediately after work on Sunday, without much prior thought, I clocked out and went to the Bishop's just down the street from the bookstore. It was quiet and also double stamp day. 

Thank you to the Super Bowl for giving everyone else somewhere else to be. 

And note to self, always get a hair cut on a Sunday.