Sigh. The Pixie Cut. It's kind of taboo, this tomboyish cut that seems destined to only be successful on the rich and famous. After all, they have the million-dollar hair stylists and the endless supply of that just right hair product, which is akin to finding the holy grail.
I'm not sure why I'm so drawn to it. Like a moth to a flame. It would be the death of me. People would probably scoff and point and laugh. I know I would look terrible. I can hardly do my hair now, what in the sorcerer's stone makes me think I could possibly make a pixie cut look good? It's baffling. And yet it's an inevitability, this semi-annual alarm that tick tocks to the craving I have for the hair butcher.
These photos make me yearn. I try to tell myself that it's all an illusion and that my short stature and tiny forehead and round face would be the death of the pixie, but there's that little flicker of hope inside me (I call her stubborn) that still whispers, maybe I could do it. But the reality is, I'd probably be called "sir" by mistake.
Which is really the central fear revolving around the pixie cut, because looking like a boy is not normally what we ladies strive for. Chopping off such a vital part of our body feels absolutely terrifying, life changing, and it kind of is. A woman's hair is an embodiment of personality, style, glamour, mystery, and femininity.
But we are not exclusively those things because of our hair. A woman with no hair does not cease to be incredible and feminine. There's more to it than that, so much more.
Yes, doing something as drastic as a pixie cut to my appearance would be a ginormous leap of faith [read: mistake] but perhaps in the process I could unleash some glorious piece of myself I've been longing to find. Something like bravery and freedom. Something like that.