At the beginning of 2011, I made a New Year's resolution.
(Actually, I made two. But I've been trying all day and can't remember the second one.)
I resolved not to cut* my hair this year.
I knew that I needed to make a resolution, because I knew that (1) there was a slight chance I would want to do something dramatic at some point in the year, and having the semblance of self-control that I do seem to have, "dramatic" normally doesn't get much more dramatic than hair cut chin-length (unless Amber Tracy is instructing the hairdresser, in which case something as dramatic as highlights may be contemplated), or (2) there was a much greater chance that I would
with my hair and cut it off to add some variety to things.
So, here it is, April 15. And I'm bored.
More than that, I am starting to see the split ends. Hundreds. Tens of hundreds.
(Well, maybe not tens of hundreds.)
Even setting aside boredom, it needs to be cut for its own good. This is unhealthy, unsanitary, inhumane. Shaggy. Unkempt.
That, and at school the other day I saw a girl with a really cute haircut.
But, no. I am like Odysseus and the sirens. And even if my sirens are split ends, and even if it is unhealthy, unsanitary, inhumane, shaggy, and unkempt, I'm going to let it grow.
Somebody please tie me fast with even more lashings.
*"Cut" doesn't include trim.