At the risk of sounding like an over-privileged middle class female college student with an agenda of first world problems, I want to share what I've learned from having short hair.

You’re probably grimacing, rolling your eyes, or choking on your own disgust of me. Honestly, I can’t blame you—I hate this kind of story, too. But in my defense, I only have a matter of time to write this article: Every day my hair grows a little longer, threatening my expertise on the matter.

So hang with me. I promise I’ll keep it…short.

I didn’t cut my hair to make a statement about my sexual orientation or political views (but thanks for asking, Mom). I cut my hair because I was sad one day, and I needed something to do. I could go into detail about the emotional butt kicking I got earlier this year, but I won’t. We’ve all been there.

I remember sitting in the chair, watching the hairs that were once attached to my head fall to the ground in a weird wispy pool around me. As the stylist, Micky, razored off chunks of my hair—working as fast as possible, lest I regret my decision and start raging and having kittens over something I asked her to do in the first place—I didn’t feel regret or panic or anxiety. I didn't even worry about how I would have to live with this random decision for months, if not years. I felt nothing.

I was completely disconnected from that blond fluff. A voice in the back of my head wondered what the big deal was, why everyone freaked out so much about hair, why Micky kept asking me how I was doing. It was nothing, really. It's just hair.

What’s been the most interesting is peoples’ reactions. I made a Tinder—*pained expression*—right after the big dramatic cut, and some of my pictures had me with long hair as well as short hair. One of the first questions guys asked was if I had short hair or not. Stay golden, Tinder boys. Don’t even pretend to be classy.

I go back and forth between loving the pixie cut, thinking it is the most badass look I have ever had, and hating it, fearing that I don’t look feminine enough. One of the most pressing concerns I have pondered is this: Do I look like Draco Malfoy from "The Harry Potter Musical"? I am still unsure. If you know me, I pass this question on to you and anxiously await your response.

I do know I’m a different person than I was a year ago when my hair was long and braided, or even six months ago when the ends were teal. I’m currently in the process of defining myself, of figuring out who I am and what I like. In other words, I care what you think about me, but I’m trying really hard not to.

In one of my classes the other day, a girl said that the act of someone cutting their hair could be considered courageous. I’m still hesitant about this. Maybe that’s true for some people, but is hair cutting really courageous?

For me, cutting my hair was about going after what I wanted. In the span of an hour, I decided I wanted to look differently so I followed my gut.

Maybe that is what courage is, knowing what one's most honest self is, holding on to it, and pursuing it. Especially in difficult circumstances. Sure, it's just hair, but it's also authenticity of self. (I love being an English major because I can get away with saying these kinds of things.)

I've effectively called myself courageous on the internet for getting a haircut so I think we can all take a moment to appreciate that. Though I also have to deal with awkward bedhead and shallow Tinder guys for months.

But, hey, at least I'm saving money on shampoo.