Change isn’t comfortable. Not even the kind you choose intentionally, not even the kind you know, objectively, is good for you. This is a story about outgrowing things on purpose.
There’s often a specific discomfort in not immediately recognizing the person looking back at you, whether that’s about hair or about a belief you’ve carried since childhood. Perhaps that’s the point. Sometimes we need to feel that discomfort, albeit temporarily, rather than spend another year performing a version of yourself you know is coming to an end.
This week, that discomfort took a literal shape. I chopped off a lot (like, a lot) of my hair. C’est la vie! Or something like that. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t immediately start spiraling in the car. As the queen of indecision, I’m no stranger to joy and panic linking hands in the same two minutes. But maybe that’s what change looks like before we have the words for it: the outside eventually catches up to the inside. Hair, it turns out, is rarely just hair.
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