(Daniel took this picture tonight when we got home from dinner. This is a warning you’re in for some vanity and self-indulgence. )
When you see me you can’t miss it. I have a LOT of hair. Way more than most women my age. Way more than most women any age.
It’s long because a couple years ago I decided to grow it out for Locks of Love. Just because I could.
And also because I know how it feels not to have any hair. I feel lucky to have it–to donate to someone else.
I need around 10 inches to give away. My daughter gave hers recently without batting an eye.
For me, it’s not IF, but WHEN. And lately, I felt ready to make the cut. To make a change. To comb out the tangles in less than a half hour. To stop looking like an aging hippie.
The thing is, while I’ve been growing my long hair, my long hair is growing on me. And on the men in my life.
My father was the first man who loved my long hair. Probably that’s why I’m a pushover when other men love it, too. And this week, both Daniel and V told me they think I should leave it long…a little longer.
So now I can’t decide:
Locks of Love—-or Love of Locks?