The End of an Era

It’s the end of an era. Or the end of a hair-a. HA!

I got a haircut today after cutting no more than an inch off my hair at a time for the past 4 years. That’s right. I now have considerably less luxurious hair and the selfies to prove it.

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Before. Yes. I took a selfie.

Because I’ve never explained it before and it now seems relevant, have you ever wondered why I started referring to my hair as luxurious? It actually started as a joke. I do not think my hair is luxurious at all. I had really horrible acne starting at about age 10, and I went through two separate courses of Accutane to get rid of it. Before I go any further, let me say that I would take Accutane again in a heartbeat. Anyone who has had terrible acne all over their face and body who has had it cured by this drug would say the same thing. If you don’t know anything about Accutane, check out the ridiculous list of side effects here. It’s a very serious drug and can actually be lethal. Crazy, right? Anyway, on my second course of Accutane, I lost more than half of my hair. It fell out by the handful. It’s not an uncommon side effect, but since it didn’t happen the first time I took the medication (using a different generic form), I was shocked. My hair, which was once extremely thick – almost to the point of being unmanageable – was now so thin that I had to style it a certain way so that you couldn’t see my scalp. I ended the treatment a little over 2 years ago, right around the time I started this blog. I was really self conscious about my hair, so that’s why I started calling it luxurious. It was just a big joke to make myself feel better. It worked, and thankfully, some of my hair grew back too, although it looks nothing like it used to. So now you know.

Anyway, I had no intention of  cutting my hair whatsoever until I saw this picture on Pinterest and thought “Well, that could be cute…”

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You know, because all you need to look like Carrie Underwood is this haircut.

I decided to go to the salon immediately before I could change my mind. It was time. I let the stylist work her magic and didn’t look up before I was done. She kept trying to tell me how many inches she was going to cut off, and I kept interrupting her to tell her not to tell me. I didn’t want to back out.

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The damages.

Ok, ok, enough build up. Here’s the end result.

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Because one selfie is not enough.

I sent the picture to my best friend, Lauren, and her thoughts were: “I don’t know what the hell you’re doing with your face but your hair looks real nice.” It’s a coy half-smile, asshole.

So that’s my excitement of the day. Oh, and during my mile repeats this evening, I never even warmed up. I didn’t sweat at all. This is my kind of weather.

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