A hair story

For as long as I remember I've been the girl with the pretty blonde hair. 

It's been long and blonde for most of my life, except for a Chyna Phillips 'do in elementary school and a Meg Ryan phase in college. 

As my weight yo-yo'd up and down and my self-esteem did the same, I grew to associate my beauty, my appeal in this long, blonde, 'bombshell' hair. 

I've decided it's time to make a change. But I'm scared to death. 

Somewhere in my brain I can't get past the thought that when I cut my hair, not even that much shorter, I'll lose my femininity and my appeal. 

My self-esteem is hanging on a few inches of dead cells that dangle down my back. 

Will I still be cute? Will people still stop to compliment my hair, or even notice me?

Why do I care? 

The cut is growing closer, the pit in my stomach grows. It's reinforcing my decision. I can't be this tied to some hair. 

I have to break the chain that's linking my self-esteem to my hair. Or my breasts.  Or whatever insignificant piece of my self I decide to focus on. 

I've got to cut my hair and ditch the past, start a new phase. Move on with a snip of the shears. 

This could be the most important haircut of my life.