One o'clock in the morning, scissors in hand, I take a walk to the bathroom mirror and before you can say "no thank you, I don't care for meatloaf", off it goes: over a foot of hair. It took a full three seconds for what I had done to register.
So, naturally, off went the rest of it as well. It was a short lapse of judgement. No, who am I kidding? It was a short lapse of everything. At that very moment in time, absolutely nothing on my body was functioning properly with the exception of my hand. And as you can imagine, the aftermath has been treacherous at best.
It will take just a few weeks for me to adjust to this change - but those weeks will seem like an eternity. Everything has changed and even a simple task like showering has become an obstacle to overcome. If this change had happened gradually, it would have been so much easier to cope with, but I'm afraid that the loss was so sudden and so severe, that it will make the recovery that much more difficult. Washing my hair (if you can even call it hair anymore) takes about a minute and a half. And rinsing it - well, I don't even quite know how to explain this to you... have you ever picked up a gallon of milk thinking that it's full when, in reality, it's nearly empty? There's just too much give, right? Your arm flings up and over as you realize that the effort you were putting in does not match the task at hand (literally). It's the same feeling here. I prepare to squeeze the excess water from a length of hair that just simply is not there.
I'm not quite certain how I feel for the look of it yet. I look like Bridget Fonda in "Point of No Return". And as one well-meaning friend so thoughtfully put it: "It looks cute when it's pulled back."
So now comes the growing-out process, and the "how-do-I-style-my-hair-now?" process, and the "what-do-I-do-with-the-hair-that's-been-chopped-off?" process.
If I were married to Paul Mitchell, none of this would be an issue.
And PS: I'm going to do my best to donate the hair, but I'm not sure I'll have any takers.