The Long And Short Of It

I'm not a morning person.

I'm sure there are people who handle mornings worse than I do. At least, I hope there are. I know that unless someone knows me very well, I come across chipper, happy, and thrilled to death just to exist. I imagine some people are rolling their eyes, with some vision of me waking up like a Disney princess, stretching my arms, greeting the birds and chipmunks, singing about how glorious life is.

Go ahead and scratch that, please.

My mornings usually involve getting my eyes pried open by a very excited little girl. "Wake up Mommy! The sun's awake!" I wipe the sleep from my eyes, and stumble to the bathroom. The face I greet in the mirror looks like homemade sin in a mason jar. My hair is a rat's nest, and usually there's a red splotch on the side of my face from the pillow. Taking a brush to my hair is a feat.

And every morning, in that moment, I contemplate cutting off all my hair. I stare at my reflection, and wonder why I ever decided to let my hair get longer and stay that way. When I was younger, I always kept my hair short. I was too active to mess with having longer hair.

But having short hair as a woman always opens the door to commentary. It seems a woman can't cut off all her hair, without everyone having an opinion on it, as though a woman can't simply want to have short hair. You see it all the time with celebrity women. "Oh, so and so cut off all her hair. She must be (fill in the blank here)."

Emma Watson got her fair share of hate and scrutiny for cutting off her hair. I think she's gorgeous regardless of the length of her hair.

I've always been a tomboy. I don't care to get dirty, I don't care to work hard. And for me, fixing my hair means brushing it and usually putting it in a ponytail. I like to dress nice, but for me, that's dressing clean and not wearing sweatpants. I rarely wear makeup, and the only jewelry you're likely to find me in is my wedding band. My nails go unpainted, and my shoe situation is usually flip flops or sneakers.

Personally, I've never thought that being a tomboy made me any less of a woman. I'm more than my hair, or clothes, or overall appearances.

But apparently, it's not that simple.

Too often, a drastic haircut is associated with something being "wrong". She cut off her hair because she's not mentally stable. She cut off her hair because she doesn't want to look feminine. She cut off her hair because she's attracted to women. She cut off her hair to make a political statement.

Why is it that every move a woman makes, is supposed to be some sort of statement?

Would it really make that much of a difference in your daily life, if any of those assumptions were true?

Some of us really just like short hair. I happen to really like my eyes, they're easily my favorite feature. Having short hair pulls attention to a feature I admire about myself.

It makes me feel pretty. I feel like I have every right to do whatever I please with my appearance, as long as I'm doing it for myself. Because I like it, and it's what I wanted to do.

Yet, here I am. Looking in the mirror at that same tired face I see every morning. I keep coming up with excuses, why I shouldn't cut off this major mane of hair.

I need to lose more weight. My husband may not find me attractive anymore (A statement I realize is ridiculous, but most of our anxieties do tend to be ridiculous, and it doesn't make them go away). Rude strangers might corner me at the store to engage in a conversation I know I'd be uncomfortable with, because strangers approaching me in public places is one of the most uncomfortable situations I could be placed in.

What steps do I need to take to be comfortable? To be able to live my life again, with short hair? What happened to me over the years, that stripped away my confidence to pull off such a drastic styling change? Was it simply the passing of youth? Or has experience shown me that no matter how hard I try to boost equality, it's still a major war that's being waged? That regardless of my actual worth, my gender makes it okay for everyone to have an opinion on everything I do?

I brush my teeth, and admire the chrome colored strands of hair starting to frame my face. My mirror never lies to me. It has no trouble pointing out that I'm getting older. That my waistline is thicker than it was ten years ago. That all my nervous laughter has created tiny lines around my mouth and the corners of my coal black eyes. But most mornings, I'm okay with the face I see. Even if she's a hot mess.

I need to figure out what the problem is, so I can correct it.

But first? First, I need my coffee. And unfortunately, I'll have to get it myself, since those birds and chipmunks are nowhere to be seen.

*grumble*