I think the best thing about cutting your hair is ridding yourself of all the weight. The absence of it is freeing. It’s one thing you don’t have to worry about anymore. No more stray hairs. No more tight ponytails. No more brushing. No more pressure.

I cut my hair on a whim while I was taking down my faux locs. In the middle of the process, I realized I had accidentally cut a few pieces of my real hair. To my own surprise, I was very calm about the situation, almost unaffected. Instead of figuring out how I was going to hide the chopped off pieces, I decided to cut it all off.

No, it wasn’t like a sad Lifetime movie. You know the ones that are poorly written and fail at exploring depression in adolescents, so instead feature a scene where the female protagonist cuts off all her hair. I didn’t hack at my hair with rusty scissors while crying dramatically.

Honestly, I was happy. I started angling my head in different directions, trying to get the perfect shape for my new TWA. The scissors were sharp. As I got the hang of it, I started cutting so quickly that I almost cut myself.

I took a step back and looked in the mirror, then at all the fallen hair. My beautiful and majestic curls weren’t on my head anymore, and I felt weird. It took me a couple of fistfuls, but I managed to pick up all the hair and put it in my trash can. Afterwards, I sat on my sink and stared at it the way an inquisitive toddler would. I took some of the hair from the trash can and felt it, rubbed my hands together, let it coil up even more.

I saved some of it, putting a little in a small plastic bag – for my mother. A memory of me and all the time that elapsed when I grew my hair that long. I think this is fair.

I didn’t save anything for anyone else, no explanations of any sort. I think this is fair.

I’m a couple of snips away from being bald, and I could care less. I made this decision by myself and for myself.