For a year or so, I have been contemplating cutting my hair–or mane as I’d like to call it. Ever since I can remember, my hair has been long. It has been more than just something on my head: it has been largely interwoven with my identity. With it, I was “Kristin: The Girl With the Thick Long Locks.” Despite the fact that my hair set me apart, there were several reasons I wanted to run some scissors through it:
- I just felt like it. New hairdos and outfits to play with? As a fashion blogger, the idea was more than enticing.
- Change. With so many new and exciting things happening in my life (studying abroad, almost crossing the threshold to my twenties, etc.), I wanted my hair to reflect that. I’ve had long hair throughout my teenage years, and saw a new look as a symbol of fresh beginnings.
- I wanted to show that I am more than my hair. While my hair was a part of what made me who I am, it was not and is not all of me. Cutting my hair would only allow me to showcase a different part of myself, a more grown up version.
Therefore, when my hairdresser separated my hair into four full ponytails and my mom asked me for the millionth time, “are you sure,” I was. I had never been more so. This was my hair and no matter how many people tried to talk me out of it, cutting it would still be my decision. “Let’s do this,” I said while closing my eyes.
Keeping it Krischic,
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