Locks 'o' Love from Michelle

It's no secret that Las Vegas is hot. It's not secret that I've worn my hair longer than long for the majority of my life. In some cases, waist-length. I went against my mother's advice at the age of 13 and chopped my waist-length hair off at my shoulders. My Mum was right. I got tons of compliments on it. The first day people saw me. A change from being stopped in the street by strangers, wanting to talk about my hair. It sounds shallow now, but remember - I was 13. I think part of my identity was tangled up in my hair and I grew it back as fast as I could and since then, it's been increasingly harder to manage. It gained some curl after I cut it, presumably because it wasn't weighed down quite so much, but it wasn't enough curl that I could get away with not doing anything to it. It had to be straightened, or it had to be scrunched. Just leaving it was not an option. Enter regret, and I'll immortalize the words: Mum was right.

I cut it again a few times in college, donating when I could, but for the most part, have worn it as long as I could stand to. As recently as two weeks ago, it was back to within inches of where my waist would be, if I still had one. It still took a lot of maintenance if I wanted to do anything besides put it up in a bun, and that was happening nearly every day. I snapped a photo on a rare Sunday when I actually straightened my hair, after breaking out in a sweat and needing to leave the bathroom every few minutes to escape the heat. With the impending birth of a second child, I thought I should do something that required a little less maintenance. Like cutting off more than a foot.

My sweet, beautiful, incredibly talented cousin Kimbre mustered all her courage and agreed to cut it for me while we were at the cabin. She's told me several times that my hair is not for the faint of heart - it's huge. I asked her at one point during the cut whether she was going to thin it, and she asked me what I thought she'd been doing for the last 10 minutes. I looked down, and even without two foot-long braids, the floor was covered. While I'll never have hair as gorgeous as hers (and I really shouldn't have taken a photo with me standing so close to her for my ego's sake) I was SO happy with how it turned out. Even better than expected. She reminded me that it's still incredibly thick, so it will take some maintenance, but she left me enough that I can still put it up in a ponytail. And by ponytail, I mean nub. Thanks for your bravery and commitment, Kimbre!

She was kind enough to separate and braid my hair so that I could send it straight off to Locks of Love.I thought they might appreciate it more than my vacuum - hoping I don't have to take the scissors to it as often now.

It took me a couple of days to take the risk of washing it and having to do it myself. Of course it will never look the same as when she cut and styled it, so I made sure to take a picture of her version to post on Facebook. I still love it , but of course it would look better if she were my live-in stylist.

In the past when I've donated hair, it's been at a salon and they ship it off for you. So it was a new experience for me to package it up myself and send it - hence taking more than a week to do so. Poor Brandon had to deal with two disembodied braids laying around the house while I let it dry (it was still wet a couple of days after the cut...such is my life), made sure I had read the instructions properly and mustered the courage to send it. It seemed so final. But I guess the cut itself made it pretty darn final. It felt really good to do something good for someone else, in addition to having a new haircut that I love and keeps me cooler on those 110+ days. 

 

Now that my self-esteem isn't entwined in my tresses, I don't need compliments. Truth be told, more often than not, I was hearing "Wow, your hair is so long!" and other statements of fact instead of actual compliments. I was never sure how to respond - and you're a girl! didn't seem right, but seemed like an equivalent. I still break a sweat when I'm straightening it and still don't have a handle on the nasty cowlick I've been battling for years, but I can say with confidence that I'm glad I did it. But I'll speak for my 13 year-old self and say, "Mum, if you're reading this - you were right all those years ago."