<\/p>\n
Throughout my younger years, however ill-advised, I was a frontline advocate for the bob and bangs look.<\/p>\n
When I was a kid, my identity was largely inseparable from my bob. I never thought of my hair as explicitly long, even in the years when it did fall past my shoulders. And, honestly, I rocked it. Three separate friends have told me in the years since that, as kids, they had been inspired by my very own blocky, Dora the Explorer<\/a> cut. Two out of those three people, however, also told me they immediately regretted their choice after the clippings grazed the floor.\u00a0\u00a0<\/p>\n And that\u2019s the thing about haircuts, isn\u2019t it? You always want more change, until you don\u2019t. Midnight bangs and misadventures in home-dyeing come with an immediate, terrifying grief. You want to make a choice to prove to yourself that you can make an immediate change to your appearance and still be yourself after the clippings fall. But when you face the mirror, the long hair no longer seems like it was a weighted burden, but something you carried with you. Something that bore witness. Something you chose to discard.<\/p>\n I never regretted cutting my hair as a kid. I grew up largely unconcerned with the opinions of people around me, and I was all the better for it. I did whatever I wanted, just to do it. I had dyed my hair an almost nonstop barrage of colors starting in fifth grade \u2014 bobs and bangs before that. I even let my middle school boyfriend pick the color once. It\u2019s liberating to dye your hair or change it as you please. When the hair brushing my shoulders began to lay on them instead, or its color drifted a little too close to a neutral blonde, I knew it was time to chop, dye or do something different. My hair was suspended, prickling my shoulders, too short to fully settle. It was a controlled abandon, an external portrayal of chaos, selected by me.<\/p>\n
![Dora the Explorer<\/a> cut. Two out of those three people, however, also told me they immediately regretted their choice after the clippings grazed the floor.\u00a0\u00a0<\/p>\nAnd that\u2019s the thing about haircuts, isn\u2019t it? You always want more change, until you don\u2019t. Midnight bangs and misadventures in home-dyeing come with an immediate, terrifying grief. You want to make a choice to prove to yourself that you can make an immediate change to your appearance and still be yourself after the clippings fall. But when you face the mirror, the long hair no longer seems like it was a weighted burden, but something you carried with you. Something that bore witness. Something you chose to discard.<\/p>\nI never regretted cutting my hair as a kid. I grew up largely unconcerned with the opinions of people around me, and I was all the better for it. I did whatever I wanted, just to do it. I had dyed my hair an almost nonstop barrage of colors starting in fifth grade \u2014 bobs and bangs before that. I even let my middle school boyfriend pick the color once. It\u2019s liberating to dye your hair or change it as you please. When the hair brushing my shoulders began to lay on them instead, or its color drifted a little too close to a neutral blonde, I knew it was time to chop, dye or do something different. My hair was suspended, prickling my shoulders, too short to fully settle. It was a controlled abandon, an external portrayal of chaos, selected by me.<\/p>\n](\"https:\/\/m.media-amazon.com\/images\/M\/MV5BMTY4OTIyODg4NF5BMl5BanBnXkFtZTgwMjIwMjQ2MjE@._V1_FMjpg_UX1000_.jpg\"){kind=link}