We all have at least one moment in our lives in which we do something stupid. Something completely and irrevocably stupid, just in the name of boredom, spontaneity, or the attitude of ‘I am young; hear me roar!’ My moment just happened to be when I chopped off over four inches of my hair this past weekend.  By myself. Over my bathroom sink.

It all started when I was procrastinating cleaning my room. I looked in my mirror and decided that my hair looked like a bush. A cute bush, but a really big and bushy bush. It was hot, frizzy, endlessly tangled and just an overall pain. I had a bad case of triangle head (it poofed out just at the ends, thus the triangle), so it was time for a haircut.

I’m always a little nervous when it comes to haircuts. Curly hair shrinks when it dries. A lot.  Most stylists don’t realize this until it is too late, so I generally end up looking like an older, red-headed version of Shirley Temple, but just not as adorable. I finally found a salon in Amarillo that understood the concept that when you cut it shoulder length while wet, you miss the exit and pass by the oh-so-inviting ‘Welcome to Jaw-length City!’ sign. The only problem was that due to their closing time combined with the two hours that it takes to cut my monstrously thick mane, I couldn’t go after school, but I could still go on Saturdays. Yet another problem arose: I’m in band. We had contest every Saturday, leaving me with no time to visit the ones who could mend my mop.

At this point, I was desperate. No, I was frantic. I was never one for long hair because it always got in the way, and I felt like a younger version of Medusa. But that’s when I saw the reflection of light hitting the shiny edge of metal. I turned around and saw the scissors perching on my desk.  I don’t believe in coincidences; I believe in certainty. Everything happens for a reason. The juxtaposition of my hair and the perfectly-pointed blades just made sense, so after spending an hour watching how-to videos (safety first), I headed to the bathroom and got started. I first tried to get as much hair off as possible, and then I layered it, or pretended to, using my newly learned techniques (thank you YouTube).

I’m not going to lie: it was pretty stinkin’ fun. Hacking away right at the source of my angst was a great stress reliever. Until I remembered one important thing: my mother. At first, I figured that if I cleaned my room first, she wouldn’t be mad, so I told her my plan, and she responded with a resounding ‘Yea, right!’ So using my assumed green-light pass, I went ahead. Needless to say, she was not so very happy happy happy until she realized how much money my ‘mistake’ saved us on a professional haircut.

Throughout this whole experience, I learned that doing something as senseless as figuratively (and literally) hacking away at your life’s problems can be liberating. Physically, I was ‘enlightened’ by having less hair, and let’s be honest: it gets heavy. Mentally, enlightenment came in the form of having the problem disappear of my own accord. Moral of the story: do something stupid and potentially disastrous, but still technically benign.