I made an appointment for next Locks of Love donation. This will be the 3rd time in less than 5 years that I've donated my hair. I should be somewhat used to this. There is no reason to feel any trepidation about having my hair cut.
Can you tell I'm trying to convince myself?
I know it's a mitzvah. I know that some little girl needs my long curly locks more than I do. I know that my hair will grow back, and relatively quickly. After all, if I'll be hacking off at least 10 inches of hair for the third time since November 2002, then my hair has grown over 30 inches in 55 months, so I'm growing at least half an inch per month. As I've said before, I'm kinda like a Chia Pet- water me and watch my hair grow.
And yet, despite all of this, I am a total weenie about having my hair cut. And msot of it is sheer vanity. I like my hair long. The uber-long, uber-curls are like my signature look. And I do not like my hair short. The first time I donated my hair, the only person who liked the result was my mother. Probably because I looked like a six year old (from the neck up, that is), and she could relive the memories of Wee Little Cara. The second haircut was actually really good (which is why I'm going back to the same salon- Tres Ambiance, on Lincoln. Insert plug here). So I know it's possible for me to look good with short hair.
And yet, as soon as I hung up the phone after making my appointment, I was visited by the Ghosts of Bad Haircuts Past (and Future), and now have visions of all the many ways I might emerge next Wednesday.
Maybe I should drink heavily beforehand. That way, if the haircut turns out awful, I can somehow blame it all on some stupid drunken escapade, and it will go down in Cara history as another funny drunk story. Or maybe if I get a little teary-eyed, they'll give me a lollipop for being such a good girl.