I do this thing. It's weird.
Whenever I am really stressed about something.
Feel unsettled. Depressed. Unorganized.
I get a haircut.
This one way a doozy.
Ten and a half inches gone. Yes, my hair was that long, yet no one would know it. Twas always up.
But I got to donate it, so there's a plus.
I'm acting like I don't like it. When in fact I am thrilled with the way it turned out.
My hair is something that I always have control of. I can fix it in seconds.
It's always the color I want, the length I want, and the style I want.
Control is something that makes me feel safe.