I cut my hair.  Quite a lot, actually.  It’s not like it was mermaid length or anything, but it had been what I consider “long” for… oh… somewhere in the neighborhood of 10 years. And now, it rests right above my shoulders.

I’ve said so many times, “I love short hair, but Chad likes it long.  If it weren’t for that I’d cut it.”

So. Many. Times.

Now I know lots of people will have things to say about doing what I want, wearing my hair how I want, not having my appearance dictated by a man, yada, yada, yada.

But here’s the deal: I picked him, and I love him.  And I want to be attractive to him in every way I can be. I will not apologize for wanting to please the man I married, and you can’t make me feel bad about it.

So don’t bother trying.

So we’re watching some music awards show, and some famous lady has cut off her hair. I start talking to my oldest about how much I love short hair, and how I’d cut mine if Daddy didn’t love long hair so much.

Chad’s mom was a hairdresser forever, so he has some very definite – and correct – ideas about good hair.

And then, Chad, from his recliner says, “I say something one time and I hear it for a hundred years.  I’ve told you a million times I don’t care if you cut it!.” 

Me: “Really?  It wouldn’t bother you?” 

Him: “No! Of course not.” 

Me: “Ok.  I will then.”  

That was not a statement of belligerence, just a declaration of intent.  And so, I texted my friend Michelle and set up the appointment.

I showed up a week and half later, ready for a change.  “I mean it, Michelle. Cut it. I want some length off, and I don’t even care if there’s enough for a ponytail.  Just don’t make my face look fat.” (Disclaimer: I have chipmunk cheeks, even at 35, so that’s a tall order.)

Michelle delivered. 

I’ve always been pretty flippant about hair and cutting it. It’s just hair. It grows back. And on the outside, I stuck with that.  But on the inside, I was just the tiniest bit nervous. Not that I’d hate it, or that Michelle wouldn’t do a good job, but that I’d have regrets.  That I’d wish I could go back. That I’d suddenly realize I’d made a mistake.

But really, the haircut isn’t the story here. 

For TEN YEARS I wore my hair a certain way because that’s what I THOUGHT someone else wanted from me.  One time, Chad tells me he “loves my long hair,” and it becomes gospel.

A million times he says, “I don’t care if you cut your hair,” and I hear none of it.  I’ve worn it short several times over the many years we’ve been together, but for the last 10 years, it was all long hair, all the time.

WHY?

Well, I don’t know.  Maybe you can figure it out. I’m gonna save that to think about later.

Anyway, this haircut thing just became a whole metaphor for where I am right now.  I’d been doing what I thought someone else wanted me to do for so long, I had come to easily ignore what I wanted, what felt best for me.  And that doesn’t start and stop with a haircut.

I wonder what else?

What else have I been doing for so long because that’s what I THOUGHT someone wanted from me? Not even what they really wanted, just my idea of what they wanted?

How much junk is swirling around in my life and my worries because of my perception of someone else’s expectations? I’ve often joked that I’m an oldest child with a sick need for approval. 

All of a sudden, that doesn’t feel so funny. It feels just a little too close to the truth.

And even though on the outside (and sometimes the inside) I have all this confidence and peace about the changes happening in my career and my personal life, inside I’m getting my hair chopped off. 

What if I hate it? What if I regret it? What if it’s a mistake? What if I want to go back to what it was before? What if I don’t look like me anymore?

It might not grow back this time.

But you know what? Here’s what I’ve heard since I cut my hair. “You look younger!” “You just don’t look so tired anymore.”

It’s like the removal of that curtain of hair somehow unveiled parts of me that were hidden.  What started as just a haircut, a change of appearance, has come to symbolize so much more for me. A fresh start. A new look. A reclaiming of self. A risk.

Trust in someone who knows more than me.

And so I’m wondering, what will I look like as I come through a bigger change?  Is it possible that the thing I fear most will actually be the thing that brings the most freedom?  I’m starting to think yes, in fact, that is exactly what will happen.

Unfortunately I still worry a bit about things like insurance and retirement, the pragmatic things of this world that responsible people consider and plan for.  But I’m trying really hard not to. I’m trying to trust that He has that under control as well.

It’s hard, though.

It stinks being blind. I hate to admit that I’m not very good at it.  But I know I’m moving in the right direction, following His will for my life, and so I have to continue choosing to trust that He can – and will – handle the details.

And who knows? Maybe I won’t want any of it to grow back.