I have officially entered every woman’s worst nightmare: the in-between-stage of growing out my short haircut.
(Disclaimer: I realize this is an overly-girly subject, which I generally refrain from indulge in, but humor me, okay? I’m in the in-between-stage.)
Any woman that has ever had a very short haircut knows that the 6 to 8 months following the decision to go back to long hair are just about the most torturous months of one’s life. And I am at about month .5. Two weeks ago my hair was a little longer than I would like, but still stylable, I still felt hip and edgy (well, as edgy as I can feel). Last week, my hair was managable, though a little unruly by the end of the day. Somehow, when Sunday hit, my hair became an absolute disaster: thick and long and straight as a board.
Let me give you a visual. My hair is a cross between a juvenile Paul McCartney (definitely not the old, balding version of the Beatle that makes headlines today)…
…and Twiggy (also the 70’s variety), sans the polyester onesy and striped tube socks.
Not cute, let me tell you. What may have been in style back in the day for a size -0 super model or a pop-singing boy toy is not acceptable in the twenty-first century. I have attempted to straighten, curl, and volumize, not to mention flat out hide the in-between-stage with scarves and headbands. But to no avail. It seems that my Twiggy-McCartney-esque mop top will only continue to grow until the glorious day when it has grown long enough to be cut into an actual style (aka a short sassy bob… or really anything else at this point).
If you need me, I’ll be the girl with the paper bag over my head. I’ve never wanted December and stocking caps to comes so quickly.