a changed woman

I'm growing my hair out.

Again.

I do this every couple of years, this hair-growing-out thing. I mean, I love short hair and all, but something just comes over me, this immediate and all consuming need for a luscious blanket of hair that can be tied back or braided or pulled up or left swinging down my back.

And so I decide to grow my hair out.

Again.

The thing is, I'm a compulsive hair-cutter. And just as surely as I will feel the need for a ponytail, I will also feel the need to CHOP CHOP CHOP.

It's a vicious cycle.

Paul's been so patient. Deep down he's a long hair man, but he puts up with my ever changing locks like a champ. Every time I announce my intent to become a Rapunzel, he dances a jig, and every time I come back from Reagan's salon with an adorable short 'do he tells me he likes it, even though he's never understood my compulsive need to CHOP CHOP CHOP.

But this time is different. I'm a changed woman, I swear. I'm on my knees here, with flowers and chocolate and a jar full of mea culpas and stuff.

You're probably wondering why you should believe me. And I don't blame you. The thing is, Reagan has been given strict instructions not to CHOP CHOP CHOP. And Paul has been advised as well. And I have thrown away all my scissors and I'm strictly forbidden to look at cute short cuts on InStyle and WHAT ELSE DO YOU WANT FROM ME, PEOPLE?

Geez. I said I'm growing it out already, alright?

Oh, uh, sorry. I get so cranky when I'm going through hair-cutting withdrawals.