Chloe Moss, 23, is a fashion blogger and freelance writer who graduated with an English Literature degree from King’s College London in July. In her eighth ‘Funemployed’ column she copes with post-haircut regret.
Last weekend I did something drastic. Something that should not be done in haste, but I went and did it anyway. I got my hair cut off. Not just a little trim, and don’t think I’m one of those people that freaks about a tiny snip. Oh no, I got a fairly sizeable chunk of my barnet torn from my head.
You might be wondering why I did this. You might not, but I’m going to tell you anyway. I did it as a response to having felt in somewhat of a style rut the last few weeks. If I’m honest, I’ve been hating my entire wardrobe and have been at a loss as to what I’m actually wearing on a daily basis. So the logical response seemed to be to cut my hair off; a bold move motivated by the feel of stagnation. So there it is. All my hair is gone. I thought that with the cutting of my hair, off would fall my fashion flux, because that is the level of logical thinking I operate on.
I’m going to walk you through the thought process nice and slowly. I felt bored, as I said, so I booked a haircut. Then I went to get the haircut. A nice Irish girl cut my hair, and she told me that my ‘natural tones’ were really nice especially since my tones are far from natural. I felt good for that. For a while I enjoyed the haircut. I didn’t enjoy the weird head massage they always make you get, but that’s fine it passed. Then she started cutting and I realised than when my hair is wet my head shape is really emphasised.Was this a mistake? It was too late to go back at this point, she had started decisively snipping away, and I was trying to focus on an article in Vogue about skirts.
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Then the haircut finished. I liked the hair for a while. I felt liberated and slightly wild for impulsively cutting it all off. Then I remembered that I have a pretty large head. A head that doesn’t necessarily lend itself to a short crop because it can’t carry it. People with short hair are supposed to be elfin, lithe. They’re supposed to have the jaw of Alexa Chung. I do not have Alexa Chung’s jaw. I have my jaw. My jaw which is a little wonky, if I’m honest. Like that painting The Scream only I’m massively hyperbolising and it’s actually not noticeable at all to anyone sane. So suddenly the haircut isn’t liberating and daring, it’s a constant reminder, a glaring arrow, to all my irrational complexes about my head. And yes I am aware that I sound like that scene in Mean Girls where they’re standing in front of a mirror talking about their flaws. The point isn’t that these flaws actually exist, it’s that I invented them in my head and the haircut made me crazier.
The question that I’m sure is on nobody’s lips is, did it get me out of my style rut? The answer is no, it did not. As it goes, cutting all your hair off when you’re feeling bored of your clothes is not a solution to the problem, but rather, it acts to exacerbate the situation entirely. The second question is, what have I learnt? Don’t get a haircut when you’re in a bad mood. Don’t get a haircut as a response to not liking your clothes. Don’t get a haircut as a response to any kind of exasperation, basically. But at the end of the day, hair is hair and it grows back and if I’m honest, I’m sure I’ll like it in a week and never want to go back. But people, don’t do hasty haircuts.