I'm sorry Brittany ...

We all remember that moment back in 2007. The pictures in the tabloids of Brittany shaving her head in front of a hoard of paparazzi. The jokes we made about that woman, I look back and cringe. I was young, I didn’t understand, and I hope never fully to understand, but boy, do I kinda fucking get it. That moment is so freeing. The trimmers buzzing over the apex of your scalp. The weight falling away, the cold air hitting skin in a way you have never felt before.

Yeah, if you haven’t guessed it, I went full GI Jane. Gone are the long red locks. It’s freeing, comfortable, and looks ridiculous, but I’m oddly content. I can’t say happy. I grew up being told I looked like a boy. I tend to wear simple clothes and no makeup. One of the few feminine things about me was my thick, luscious hair. I should probably back up a bit and explain how I ended up sitting on a destroyed camp chair in my RV at 3 a.m., drinking from a bottle of whiskey, with a complete stranger snipping away my locks.

I’m a “run head first” kind of person. I’m willing to try everything twice cause the first time might be a fluke. So when the guy I matched with on Tinder explained that cutting hair was kind of a hobby and showed me some pictures, I said, “Fuck it.” I was only planning on doing a small undercut on the base of my head. We planned to meet for drinks but quickly realized every local place was closing. So I invited him to just come over. I figured the RV park was the second safest place to meet outside of a public setting. If anything were to happen, all I would need to do was scream bloody murder, and my neighbors would come running. So I went off to pick up libations while he headed over. We talked, drank, and then decided to start cutting.

I explained that I needed to keep the length and wanted a small undercut at the back. He agreed but laughingly told me I would ask him to shave the whole thing one day. He then asked why I wanted to keep the length, and I froze. How the fuck was I going to explain without sounding like an idiot. I explained that I was seeing someone soon and the long hair had to stay. As we continued talking, he managed to coax more information out of me. I was keeping my hair long because a guy I was interested in liked it, the Pagan with a wife and 5 kids. I said that he could cut it all once I came back from my trip, and he just shrugged his shoulders but gave me this look. It was the perfect mixture of “Girl, please” and “You have got to be kidding me.”

It felt like a gut punch. I was doing it again. I was making myself, or in this case, keeping myself, the way someone else wanted me. I was doing this for a chance with a guy who would never give me what I wanted. I was happily skipping down the same road and could not trust myself to stop.

“Cut it all.”

He looked taken aback but quickly recovered with a jovial “Fuck yeah” and started clipping away. All while I kept sipping straight from the whiskey bottle. My hair was something I was proud of. It was one of the few distinctly feminine things about me. It’s always been thick and grows fast. In fact, I had cut 6 inches before this, and now I was slicing off the last 14 inches, give or take. But I had this overwhelming feeling that I had to. It’s not a style I would normally choose, but why not try it once, it’s just hair; it grows back. As more fell away, I started to feel new again. I’m not going to lie; the second half of this experience becomes increasingly more bizarre but also very “me.” I ended up sitting cross-legged in a camping chair with the back cut out (easier access for the undercut), in nothing but my lace underwear, while this man danced around me with the clippers butt naked in a cock cage. Even typing it, I can’t stop laughing. I am the only person I know who could find themselves Doming a caged switch in my RV at 3 a.m. while I cut off the last of my old life.

That’s what it felt like. At some point, I looked down and realized the bleached ends were from my wedding. This was the hair that I walked down the aisle with. The hair all the men in my life fantasized about. Lobbyist, New Dan, and even my ex loved the long red locks. I do, too. I understand it evokes a certain response. But it felt in that moment like part of what made me a toy to them. I didn’t want it anymore. I didn’t want to be hurt anymore. I was so tired of being used like an object. I didn’t want to be pretty. I wanted to be ignored and looked over. I just wanted a break. I clearly couldn’t trust myself, so I let all those emotions hit me while the Bad Wolf cover of Zombie played in the background. The burn of the alcohol, the chill of the air hitting the scalp down the center of my head, no turning back now.

So, do I love it? Not really. I don’t think it looks awful, but it’s not exactly me. I'll be happy once it returns to at least a pixie cut. I won’t say I’ll never do it again because it was the most liberating feeling combined with a very interesting night.