Haircut.

Oops, I did it again. Opening myself up to the endless comments of
you-look-much-nicer-with-hair and why-did-you-do-this and
are-you-depressed and and and ad nauseam. Sigh. To save you
the bother, here are my responses:

I know, and I don't care.
I don't know, and it doesn't matter.
All my life, what about you?

Sadly, most of the people who feel compelled to give me sartorial
advice do not read my blog.

I have not yet exactly pinpointed why I have this need to keep buzzing
my head. I had wanted to try it for some time, if only to make sure
that there was no 666 mark! Well, more realistically, to see if there
were any childhood scars that had been hidden (there weren't,
no physical ones, at any rate).

Then I saw Natalie Portman in that delicious film, V for Vendetta,
and that settled the matter.

All I know is that it somehow makes me feel powerful and
humble at the same time. It's incredibly freeing. It can be my shield
or my sword. It can work like a hijab or a big fucking billboard
that says "Go away."

It's also incredibly TIDY. I love not having to worry about how
my hair looks (it always looks the same, no cowlicks, no bed-head)
and when I'm sweeping, I never have to deal with strands of hair
around which dust bunnies form (unless friends or family visit;
they usually manage to leave behind a strand or two).

And it feels - in the literal sense - fantastic. There's something
exquisite about holding your freshly buzzed head in your hands,
letting your fingers run down your skull. Velvet in one direction,
velcro in the other.

Oh, and by the way, that story about Samson? Big fat lie.
I blame (but of course) patriarchy.

If only every woman would try it.