A new hair cut.
I cut my own.
I snip the split ends, like I wish I could snip the problems of the world: Cleanly off.
I trim two inches.
Wait a few days....
Another few inches hit the floor.
Feather, feather, feather.
Kelsey taught me this...
Just a little at a time.
Even isn't the issue.
Like ogres and onions and my home-done haircut.
Grow it out, trim it up, cut it off.
Sometimes I wish it was.
Sometimes I wish for red fuzz a quarter inch off my scalp.
What message would that send the haters?
I am my own me.
The boss of my body.
Self-esteem tangled in hair.
Red hair. Redhead.
Should I dye it blonde?
I want the world to change, but fighting though I am, it's not. Not yet. Soon, I hope.
Appearance, image, esteem.
Challenge my own opinions of myself.
Will I be less me with a buzzed head or platinum locks?
Someday I'll have the guts.
Maybe sooner rather than later, I'll take more of a chance.
For now, I just dare to cut my own hair.