As far back as I can remember, I've equated hair, especially long hair with femininity. All the prettiest girls had the long flowing locks. Jan Brady. Farrah Fawcett. Amy Sprague (best friend from first grade).
Then there was that period my mother thought I'd look adorable with a short shag. Maybe it only happened once but I got confused with being boy, much to my horror. Every time someone told me I looked like my dad, I heard "look like a man." I never went short again.
Losing my hair is going to be tough. So I took a page from John Wayne's playbook and saddled up anyway: got my hair cut shorter than I ever have in my life. Can't say I love my new 'do, but I love it was my choice. In a few weeks, I won't have a choice. Some questioned why if it is going to all fall out soon, why bother?
My thought was it would be less giant chunks coming out on my pillow, in the shower and on my brush. I figured also I could get a wig made that resembles this style so I have realistic "transition" look while my hair grows back next year when the situation calls for it. (Love the idea of having a few fun wigs). But more than anything, it is more about my facing my fear, albeit a minor one big picture wise, of this process I'm undergoing.
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