My journey to finally chopping my hair off was an ongoing battle for years.

I started dying my hair when I was in middle school, from the classic dip-dye trend to an ombré job (although thankfully I did not have an ombré horror story as many unfortunately do). I loved the idea of changing my style, and dying my hair was a simple way to do so.

During high school, I became more invested in dyes, transitioning to more vibrant colors from cheaper boxes. Eventually, all the bleaching and processing caught up to me, and I could no longer keep up with the damage. My hair was falling out in clumps during the shower, thinning out and breaking apart from just the touch of a comb.

This was when I started to realize that coloring my hair was not just an excuse to change up my look, it was a coping mechanism. I was so insecure that I constantly felt the need to alter some aspect of my appearance, and what better way to do so than to slap purple onto my scalp?

If I kept my hair long, I could not only play with dyes, but shield myself from the outside world. I could cover my face, hide my torso, remain inconspicuous in the crowd so the imperfections that I saw were concealed from the public eye.

So, I cut my hair.

I could not do all of it at once, although a big part of me wanted to shave it off completely and start over. Bit by bit, I trimmed a few inches off every month. By this point, there wasn't much hair left, but my thin locks still needed some upkeep.

I ended up with hair that reached my collarbone right before my first year of college and decided that length was as far as I would go. In just a few years, I completely altered my appearance: I got bangs, I dyed over the mixture of maroon and blonde with a color that matched my roots. There was still quite a bit of damage on my ends, but I wanted to keep it at a length that felt safe for me.

When I returned to college for my sophomore year, I decided to get one final trim. I was not ready to take all the dead-ends off, but I figured I could do an inch, an inch and a half maximum. However, this was not the image the hairdresser had for me.

She took off four inches.

The moment I returned home and glanced at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, I started uncontrollably sobbing. Yes, it was just hair, but it felt safe to stay at my desired length. It was not just about my brown locks, it was about feeling confident in my own skin, which I could not do with this haircut. I felt ugly, disgusting, unworthy of love. Who wants to be with a girl whose hair is shorter than her brother's? Who would think I was pretty when all my blemishes and flaws were now on display?

It felt like everyone who told me that the haircut "wasn't so bad" was lying. Who is honest to their friend if they get a bad haircut? Isn't it a social norm to tell everyone that their hair looks great even if they have a bowl-cut?

It was as if a part of my identity had been ripped away from me, but I realized there was nothing I could do at this point. I could either hide my hair for the next four months with hats and bandanas, or I could embrace the new look and use it as fuel to reconstruct my self-perception.

Anyone who says it's "just a haircut" does not understand the emotional attachment that some of us have to hair. It's not just about bangs or layers, it's about self-esteem. The only way I was able to build mine back was by experimenting with the new look and eventually appreciating it.

I am still learning and adjusting, I am still working on my insecurities. I would never have made it my mission to improve these aspects if my haircut didn't force me to do so. I reevaluated my self-image, and it drove me to make a conscious effort to work on my low self-confidence.

Try to learn about your body and admire aspects of it that you have never felt comfortable about. Pursue a change in life that scares you, even if others perceive it as a small adjustment.

And cut your hair already.