Some thoughts on being your own damn self

“I’m not romantic, you know. I never was.” - Charlotte Lucas, Pride and Prejudice

I had Sherri cut off twelve inches of my hair yesterday. I went in knowing I was ready for shorter but not wanting to come home with a pixie and scare the crap out of Seamus (true story: My mom cut off all of her hair in 1979 or 1980, and I cried through the whole haircut, which was at home in her bedroom), so we picked a swingy bob cut with short bangs out of a magazine and went for it. We re-did my hair as well so it’s quite dark right now. Aside from the new color severity, I like it. After Sherri blew me out I spent the day feeling like Anna Wintour. This morning, post-shower, I look a bit like Marcia Gay Harden’s character in Pollock. 

I also look my age. Which I’m finding very interesting. Not interesting in a “Oh noes, I need…something! Woe is me!” sort of way, but in a “This is what 37 will look like” way. Which is easy to accept, since getting younger isn’t something we do as living beings, and I’ve been shutting down the sound and fury that is media imagery for quite some time now. Another interesting assist comes from never really being considered a sex object to begin with. Let me unpack that.

I’m fairly awkward. I also came of age with a lot of early-developing girls who got very interested in make-up and clothes and hair. I didn’t really do that. I was pretty much depressed all through middle school, overate myself into big hand-me-downs, and didn’t quite get how to do the hair make-up dressing thing. So I tended to be…looked over by guys. It’s not a thing for me at this point, but it was at that age. I spent a lot of time in my teens and early 20s trying to get my outsides to match the expectations of what the outside of a woman should look like, till the summer before grad school. I was single, not interested in dating a lot, and running 30 miles a week. So I figured hell with it, let my looks match my lifestyle.

Tinted sunscreens and lip balms with the occasional mascara, buns and ponytails. I’ve played with things as I graduated and entered the work force, but basically everything I’ve worn supports my need to be comfortable and to be mobile. Three men haven’t tried to change that either overtly or covertly, and I married one of them. That doesn’t mean I haven’t slid into worrying about my looks or trying to achieve some outward-projected image, because getting comfortable with oneself when you are taught not only to judge yourself by your looks but to brace for judgement from others is fucking hard, yo. 

But. But but but. Somewhere along the line the need to use that energy for something else kicked in. I’m too damn tired to wear whatever is popular and style myself accordingly. I know what I like and what works, and perhaps more importantly, what is needed to keep up with my 1.5 kids, dog, and spouse. And if the spring is full of road trips and bathroom remodels with a newborn in our lives, having hair halfway down my back is a ridiculous thing. So off it goes.