Day 186 Risk: Go Pixie Take Two

I had no idea when I took this risk that it would span multiple days. I figured I would cut my hair, maybe deal with the styling of it and then just get used to it. The thing about taking a risk like this though is that there are whole other rounds of risking involved. Yesterdays involved showing everyone else.

I knew that people in my life would notice my haircut. I wasn’t ready for the huge reactions. I’m seeing more and more that hair is a weird reflection of self. And when you drastically and outwardly change that self, people take notice.

The first person I saw when I got to work yesterday was my boss. “You cut your hair!” he exclaimed.

“Yeah,” I said nervously, suddenly realizing that while I like it, others may think otherwise.

“Love it,” he said cheerily.

As he walked away I had a sudden thought: No one here knew I was going to do this. This is going to happen all day.

And it did. Every time someone new came in for work, there were similar statements made, along with questions of “Did you cut your hair?” and dramatic explanations of “Oh my GOD!” (Don’t forget I work with actors). Pretty much everyone said they loved it, which left me feeling oddly suspicious. Really? Everyone loves it? Really?

I said something to this effect and one of my co-workers, a forever cynic who I can always count on to swap smart ass comments with, looked over and said, “What did you do to your hair?!”

“Thank you!” I said. “I was waiting for someone to hate it.”

“Actually it looks good,” he shrugged.

Another unexpected, and refreshing effect of hair choppage is being treated like I’m 29. For years I’ve looked way younger than I am and while this seems positive and many people wish they could look 10 years younger, the downer everyone forgets is when you look 19, people treat you that way. Being carded 3 times by 3 different people just to have a beer after work is not as appealing as it may sound (I swear to you this happened. After the carding, our server then came back and asked me if I was 21, because apparently if I was working undercover with the police or something then I’d have to admit it. I was 27). And don’t get me started on the time cops ID’d me on the street because they thought I was out after curfew. Funny, yes, but also gets really old really quickly. All these years it’s just been my hair. Who knew a hair cut would equal being treated like an adult.

I promise this whole week won’t be about my hair. But it has dominated my life the last few days, as this drastic of a change, well, changes you. But I can’t write about my hair forever, so after this there will only be one more post (Day 187) about my hair and then I promise it’s over.

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