Diary of a haircut

Want to get a bob? Go short, then go home and lap up the compliments.

The last time I cut my hair off it wasn’t by choice. I went to the hairdresser asking for a lob somewhere around my shoulders, and walked out with a bob somewhere around my ears.

I cried and cried and cried. That night, I went on a first date. The man ghosted me four weeks later and I concluded the bad hair had bad juju.

The idea to cut it short this time around came from ethereal pop princess Dua Lipa. She cut it so short, but I loved it. I couldn’t stop thinking about it, taking screen shots of her and dreaming about whether I could pull it off.

This went on for months until last weekend, I finally did it.

Full credit for the cut goes to the wonderful Hannah King at Earth salon in Christchurch. I didn’t even have to show her a pic. She could smell it on me.

All I had to utter was “blunt cut bob” and she just knew.

I kept a diary and took photos, because the truth lies in the after-after-photos, your general mental state, and the supermarket shampoo reality most of us live.

Forgive the endless selfies.

SATURDAY

PRE-CUT: It’s haircut day! The day I’ve been waiting months for! I’m thinking Cara Delevingne’s platinum bob and influencer Tanya Burr’s gentle lob, with a bit of Jennifer Lawrence edge thrown in for good measure.

I arrive at the salon wearing a headband I stole from my work BFF the day before. Hairdressers must take one look at us head-banded folk and think “What the hell is hiding under that piece of fabric?” In my case, it was a lot of dry shampoo and a lot of grease.

DURING: I’m so at peace with the chop that I barely notice the mound of hair forming at Hannah’s feet. We chat about

MAFS, Christchurch, The Bachelor and binge-drinking culture.

AFTER: By the time the hair dryer comes out, I can barely sit still. I want to ’gram it so bad and I don’t even know how the end product looks. I’m in love, but my excitement is dashed shortly after when I see my dad, and he takes a full four and a half minutes to comment on it.

I appropriately spend the night dancing at the Chelsea Jade gig. Am a strong, liberated millennial woman.

MONDAY

I rise with the kind of spring in my step Kate Hudson has in the opening scenes of a rom-com. I feel edgy and cool. A colleague says it looks great, then reminds the room I’ve “been going on about it for months”. Good things take time, OK?

I spend the next eight hours gliding around the newsroom, fuelled exclusively on compliments and ego stroking. The vanity is so high, I forget to eat properly. I will be so thin tomorrow.

Then comes the first workout. Normally when I cut my hair, I give strict instructions: “Make sure I can still tie it back.” I didn’t do that this time. I try a ponytail but it more closely resembles a tiny kabuki brush, surrounded by 326 small bobby pins. I untangle myself and settle on a half up/half down ’do (very 2016).

My neck gets so sweaty. I cannot emphasise how sweaty my neck is, and by association, my hair.

TUESDAY

It’s a morning workout today. I try the half-up ’do again. By the end, I’ve got a sweat towel draped around my neck like some 1970s athletics champ, only I’m not an athletics champ, I’m a sweaty Normal Person taking small rests at the bottom of each burpee. I can’t stop thinking that I washed my hair the night before and now it’s ruined.

Because my hair is as light as a feather these days, when I try to style it out of the post-gym ’do, it doesn’t budge. There’s a bouffy thing happening around my centre part and it’s bad. The messy top knot comes to work with me.

WEDNESDAY

My hair straightener is in the car and I overslept. I opt for the kabuki brush ponytail featuring 324 bobby pins to save time (definitely lost two pins earlier in the week). I repeat the mantra: “Tomorrow I will do better.” If I’m going to do this cut properly, I cannot become the kabuki brush ponytail girl.

THURSDAY

On Thursday, I do worse. I don’t regret the cut, but I despise what the office heat is doing to it.

I watch a “How to get a messy lob” video then copy the look with a weird automatic curler. I go hundies on the Toni&Guy salt spray. It’s “effortless”. I look exactly like a short-haired Kardashian with a sweepy side part.

Things get complicated at 3pm when I’m called upon to appear in a video, and realise the cute beach curls have turned to high-volume frizz. Beach waves are cancelled until further notice.

FRIDAY

On my seventh day with the bob/lob hybrid, I take things back to basics and aim for the very straight, choppy bob I wanted in the first place. It takes just three minutes to straighten. It’s a Christmas miracle! I should have done this years ago.

OVERALL:

The haircut cost $100 and was worth every penny. If you too want to cut off your hair, go hard, just make sure you’re doing it for the right reasons. There’s a reason I cried for days when my locks were chopped mere centimetres shorter than I wanted, at the tender age of 20. I wasn’t ready to have that part of my identity taken.

These days, I want the fierce cut.

I don’t want to look like a reality TV cast member and I certainly don’t care if a boy doesn’t like it. Hair grows back and life goes on. Get the damn cut.