Transformations. Makeovers. Glow ups. Instant, yet radical appearance revamps at the flick of a magic wand. Hollywood and the likes brought me up in this world of delusions filled with magical, effortless character transformations that would only take seconds of footages, a lot of momentum buildup, and occasionally some pixie dust. In kids’ movies and chick flicks in particular, this obligatory makeover scene almost always has to show a tragically unappealing character emerging from a salon-and-mall field trip and turning into the most charming and exquisite piece of art. And somehow all their troubles in life disappear too, along with whatever frizzy hairstyle or awkward freckles they were formerly cursed with. No wonder, there was a stage in my life in which I held onto this simple notion that all my worries, fears, and insecurities would vanish in an instant if I could go through the same cosmetic sorcery that is shown constantly in movies. Somehow it made sense that a mere haircut, or a slight change to how I usually wear my clothes, could tackle all my internal conflicts and introduce a radically new me to the world.
As I went ahead and chopped off my hair yesterday, just out of frustration with the weight of my longggg mane and the time it took to wash/care for it, I thought about my past gullibility. I had had a few ‘makeovers’ in my life, some of which went unnoticed altogether, others invited extreme astonishment from anyone who saw me afterwards. My craving for these instant fixes like in the movies was almost as pitiful as it was ridiculous. Still, it was a pleasant, chuckle-inducing moment to realize how much I have grown from this little naive girl who thought hair and outfit changes could make herself a hundred times more worthy, and her life a hundred times easier.
I guess, logistically speaking, life with short hair does get a sliiiiiiiight bit easier. Not a hundred times, but still easier.