Therrysays.com

Sigh.

I might just better come to terms with it. I’m a short-haired girl, and that’s how it’s going to be, no matter how much I tried to rediscover my feminine outlook (It’s there somewhere). I own the least collection of make-up which I’ve practically stopped using ever since I broke up with CL, and when all of my girlfriends are busy mascara-ing and eye shadowing their eyes on our last minutes before heading out, I simply just stand there and watch, completely lacking the consciousness that perhaps I should be doing the same thing. To state the more obvious, just the other day I had to go to a seminar with my manager from work and she forgot to put on lipstick and so asked me whether she could borrow mine - to which I told her I had none. Never even owning one, as far as I could remember.

No matter how determined I was to grow my hair - “No, this is definitely the last time I’m ever wearing it short, I’m definitely growing mine!” - The practicality of wearing it short again - “…less time to dry my hair, so much versatility; wax, gel, wear it straight or wavy, you name it!” - allured me back to my almost-maniacal-but-turned-out-to-be-right hairdresser. Which was ironic, considering I’d only just dropped by to get a trim since it’d started to look a bit messy.

I’d specifically told him to just cut a little bit and he was all understanding, even showed me the amount he’d cut and I was left with the reassurance that he wouldn’t cut more than what was shown. Then he got possessed with the layering scissors and he simply couldn’t stop. And guess what happened: it was the Miranda cut over again. I felt a huge deja-vu sweeping in, and I realized it wasn’t, really. I’d pointed out countless images of girls with short hair - from Natalie Imbruglia when she was famous with her “Torn” and Samaire Armstrong from The O.C - that depicted nothing of what a Miranda’s would look like, but it was as if these hairdressers had some sort of universal code of understanding and that my face was blacklisted on hair salons all over the world - each hairdresser communicated to each other in conspirational tone, nodding their heads with recognition as they murmur, “Ah… it’s the girl with the tricky short hair request. It’s the Miranda cut for sure, nonetheless.”

Really it was quite bizarre. As I stared back in horror to my own reflection in the huge, over-exposured-by-lights mirror, I thought, “This can’t be happening, she couldn’t have been that obviously identifiable! I’m NOT that cynical!”

The thing is, the real Miranda I know would be able to pull this cut off, but I don’t think I can. It’s the whole short-hairedness of it that makes me seem like the cynical bitch she is, to which I’ve always intended to avoid. Having this cut encompasses the lack of feminine and emphasizes the masculinity in me, the whole “I can’t be fucked taking care of long hair let alone be a woman” over signifies the unmistakable air of a lazy spinster that is set to scare the shite out of men. I might as well wave goodbye to potential boyfriends who stumble - or not - upon me.

Oh well, though. I’m sure in a couple of weeks it’d look fine and I’d totally love it. I’ve been through incidents like these so many times before, and like I’ve always told myself every time my trip to the salons had inexplicably turned into a trip to the ghost house full of slightly maniacal, over-aesthetic-ized hairdressers - “It will grow back.”

I guess this is just one of me moving on with my life. I’m a Miranda, whether or not I’m willing to prepare myself to admit it, nevertheless. I’ve always secretly admire her tactfulness and though I think it’s too much to handle, I love her cynical comments and the way butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth when she had to deal with men.

Hell, if I am like her, it means I am capable of buying my own apartment and having a thriving career, and that sounds mighty fine for me.

This entry was posted Wednesday, April 5th, 2006 at 5:35 pm and is filed under Uncategorized. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.