I have a ritual for cutting my hair. 

I start by letting it grow too long, until all the ends are broken and frayed and even the men in my life can see I’m overdue.

I set the appointment and start fretting over what cut to get.  Should I go for a new look?  Should I just get a trim?  Whatever the length, it must be wash and wear.  I will not be spending time styling it.

While getting my hair cut I’ll chit-chat with the stylist, but if they talk too much I won’t use them again.

I give a generous tip, because I’m always making my apointment at the last minute and tipping generously helps get me a spot.

I go home, and look in the mirror.

I hate it.  Positively detest it.  I pull out the hats and paper bags–this cut sets a new record for ugliness.

I wait a day or two, washing and wearing it and getting used to the new look.

I decide it’s not bad.  In fact, it looks pretty good.  I think I like it.

I remind myself not to wait so long for the next trim, and start the whole cycle over again.