Lately, I’ve been getting some compliments on my hairstyle. As nice as everyone has been, I regret how I’ve reacted- with a grimace, and an uncomfortable “Uh, yeah. Thanks.” It seems like everyone likes my hair a lot more than I do.

One year ago, I had hair down to the middle of my biceps. I loved my hair- I loved what I could do with it, the many ways I could wear it. In braids, a bun, or a ponytail; wavy, curled, straight- you name it. I enjoyed experimenting with my hair, trying to get people to look at me as I passed them in the halls.

Even though it was longer than it had ever been before, and very thick to boot, it was convenient. I didn’t have to struggle with a comb, hairpins, and gel to control it in ballet and color guard. If I wanted it wavy the next day, hopping out of the shower, tossing my head upside down, and scrunching a palmful of mousse into my hair was as simple as it came. If I was tired at the end of the day, I just went to bed with my hair wet and it looked fine the next morning. If my hair didn’t agree with me, it didn’t happen often.

Sadly, I had about four inches of split ends at the bottom. They were horrible. Every time one of my girlfriends played with my hair, or someone just looked at it, I was quite uncomfortable. To say I was self-conscious of my split ends is an understatement.

And so I cut them off. Just before spring break, I sat in a kitchen chair while my mom cut off my hair, snip by snip. Every now and then, I would get up and run into the living room to look at my reflection in the mirror over the piano, checking to see if it was as short as it needed to be. I remember telling mom more than once that it wasn’t short enough yet. In the end, it was just below my shoulder.

But it wasn’t enough for me. When the end of April rolled around, I decided to just go all the way- after all, what were just a couple more inches off? I cut my hair to chin length in the front and short and stacked in the back. I was excited because I thought that it would be a low-maintenance hairstyle. And I also reasoned- just to calm down my friends who didn’t want to see it go- that hair grows back. That if I didn’t like the cut or it was too short, it would be okay because hair can grow out again.

But that was how I felt then. Recently, though, I have come to realize that it won’t be okay. Not really- and not soon, either.

A week or two before this school year began, I went to get my hair trimmed and reshaped for my senior pictures. Even though I told the woman who cut my hair exactly what I wanted, I walked out with far shorter hair than I intended. I felt like Scott Pilgrim, and that in the near future, I would still know exactly how many days had passed since the horrible haircut. (It’s been 36 days, just in case you’re wondering.) *

It may not have looked like much, but the half-inch of hair I was missing made a large impact on me. And I really started noticing how exactly NOT low-maintenance my hair really was. In the back where it is so short, it is next to impossible to straighten- my flat iron can’t get that close to my head. If I fall asleep with even slightly damp hair, it stands up when I get out of bed, and I have to wear a beanie all morning to flatten it. And if it’s soaking wet and I sleep on it- forget about it! I wake up looking like an under-grown dark-haired lion.

Where I used to have ponytails and braids and topknots, there is a certain vacancy. When I do my hair, I have two options: bangs down, or bangs up. Only copious amounts of gel or hairspray can make it do anything else.

The worst thing of all about this ridiculously disastrous hair cut is that I didn’t do it for any good reason. I didn’t donate any of it to Locks of Love. I didn’t cut it for a play. No one was my inspiration to cut it. I didn’t do it for any reason other than I wanted the change.

And sure, I got my change. But when you add that to how much of a pain in the neck my hair is to take care of, the entire haircut wasn’t worth it.

Here’s a quick fact: the average person’s hair grows half an inch a month. If my hair were nine inches longer, it would be the length I had at the beginning of junior year.

In eighteen months, my hair will be the length it was then- at least part of it would. I will be finishing my first semester of college, and finally feel normal. It’s an uncomfortable thing for me to face, but especially every time I pass a mirror.

I have the rather bad habit of writing on my bedroom mirror. I write reminders to myself, inside jokes, phone numbers, anything that I really see fit. Right now, the only thing besides a reminder to start on my Halloween costume is “go with the grow”, a reminder not to cut my hair.

The day after my horrendous haircut, I was standing in front of that mirror pulling on my hair- as if pulling on it would make it come out of my scalp faster- and I decided that I was going to embrace my hair’s growth from then on. And so, I polished off everything else I had written on the mirror and wrote at the top “go with the grow”.

I know it may sound silly, but when I read that, I feel assured that it won’t be impossible to just let my hair get longer. I based it on “go with the flow”, a phrase that reminds me irresistibly of the scene in Finding Nemo where all the sea turtles just let the East Australian Current carry them away. They got where they wanted to go, but they didn’t spend their time getting there freaking out about it. Thanks to seeing this written on my bedroom mirror, I have been able to take a deep breath, put the hair cutting scissors down, and calmly step back to watch my hair grow for a month now.

There are consequences for everything- one look in a mirror still reminds me of it. I made the decision to cut my hair short, and now I regret it. However, the great thing about consequences is that they happen after any action, whether it seems good or bad. Now that I’ve made the decision not to cut it, someday I will have my long beautiful hair back. Sure, it may take what seems like forever and a day- but all I have to do is sit back and “go with the grow”.