Don’t Use Cutting Your Hair As A Coping Mechanism, You’ll Regret It

I often wonder how small your world has to be for it to implode.

Mainly because I have a lot of regrets. None of which make much sense. I’m trying to learn from them, to embrace them, to share them instead of blowing them up into bits of ruby-red confetti. I haven’t quite mastered it yet. Which leads me to my most recent regret.

My DIY fringe. 

I was missing how short and cute and wispy it once was – my hair is always doing the wrong thing you see. Always curling in the wrong spots, always growing in the wrong spots. Down a bit, up a bit, down a bit. There. Stay right fucking there. 

It doesn’t.

So, yeah. One minute I was missing the way it looked and then, BAM. Dodgy fringe.  

I didn’t just wait a day or two and go to the hairdressers for $10 like a normal person, oh no. I just grabbed those scissors like a possessed little fairy and snipped away, suddenly confident in my apparent hairdressing abilities. Chop! My hair bounced up above my eyebrows like a sad slinky weighed down by the (huge!) mistake I had obviously just made. 

Too short. Way too fucking short. And did you even think about framing? 

I kinda felt like laughing, kinda felt like crying. It was a freeing kinda feeling. It was also a you-just-ruined-your-entire-life kinda feeling. 

I don’t make rash decisions. I never knew why I made that a rule, but now, I understand completely. Which leads me to the realisation that I have been forced to review more than once now – I’m really not good with change. 

Even if it is self-inflicted. 

Even if it is something I originally wanted. 

One thing to remember – I may have wanted it. Doesn’t mean I wanted it like that. 

Routine is my safe space. Soft blankets and fairy lights wrapped around windows I only ever look out of. Salt lamps and lace curtains, tea tree oil and guitar strings. All I wanted was to merge you into those things. Spaghetti bolognese and Stranger Things. But that got too depressing, so it changed to spaghetti bolognese and anything that was funny. Coffee and cologne to work, a smell that would last throughout the whole day. Flasks full of whatever we could find in the cupboard, always the same taste, same tongues, same ideas. Don’t tell me what I can and can’t say. Tell me what you want to hear. I understand the confusion. It doesn’t mean I like it. 

Anyway, back to the fringe from Hades. I made an appointment at the hairdresser for tomorrow. I hope they fix it. I really can’t afford to look like a mushroom when my entire existence is based on being the epitome of a dream. 

I often wonder how small your world has to be for it to implode. 

Mine must have been pretty fucking small. 

I wonder if yours was too.