Cut Off

On Saturday, I cut off all of my hair. I didn’t have much to begin with (about chin length), but what did exist has now been sacrificed to the hair gods in the name of a pixie cut. 

Friends of mine will tell you that changing my hair comes with every change in my relationship status. In general, a break up means a cut off, and my most recent foray into the world of love is no exception. As far as post-break up habits go, it’s hardly self destructive. I could do worse (hello Mr. Daniels ….). At any rate, I have bounced back and forth between a bob and a pixie for roughly the past six years of my life, and I long ago accepted that I am just not a long-haired kind of girl. 

This has presented some interesting life quandaries for me when it comes to the world of dating. Super short hair has often led to two things: 1. being asked if I’m a lesbian, and (more often) 2. Warding off the average guy.

“The average guy” is not into pixie cuts. He is into long, pretty hair that has usually been treated to a curling iron or straightener. TAG also likes his women with a bit of a tan, and an appropriately flirty giggle. TAG would prefer if, when meeting a woman at a club or bar, she is showing either an ever so slightly scandalous amount of leg or chest. Most likely not both – TSG (the skeevy guy) is the one who’s into both. 

My penchant for short hair has led to my fair share of hits to the ol’ self esteem. It can be difficult to go into a bar and know that you’re most likely not going to be hit on (and to be proven right). Thanks to an occasional modeling stint, I knew I had something going on – it’s just that whatever it was, it was something that was appreciated by photographers and my friends. Not TAG. It took plenty of nights feeling shitty about myself in the ladies room before I came to a simple realization.

Why the hell would I want the average guy? 

I want better than the average guy who hits on women at bars. And sure, my ego will take a temporary hit if he ignores me, but come down to it … I just don’t want him. Not in the long haul.

I want the man who loves the things that make me different from other girls, not the things that make me the same. The fact is, TAG is probably not worth my time – he’s probably not worth any girl’s time, really. He is average. And no one should settle for average. 

I should, perhaps, thank the follicles on my head for all of the time and trouble they’ve saved me by staving off TAG. Do I sometimes wish I had fabulously long hair? Sure. But only for a minute or two.

The truth is, I’d rather stand out as the girl with the pixie cut. 



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