Acceptance Is Worse than Getting Your Tongue Stuck to an Ice Cube

Two years ago I went through a phase, and by phase I mean breakup. I thought bleaching my hair was a fantastic idea. What better way to show someone you are a new person without them than frying your hair? After two years of growing out my bleached hair, staining it brunette, and frequently visiting the salon for trims, I was finally left with only an inch of blonde at the ends. Ombré is in, right?

I'm going to a wedding this weekend, and I decided to finally get rid of the rest of the blonde yesterday. I just didn't know that my stylist was going to CHOP IT ALL OFF. So, now I'm left with T-Swift hair; however, I don't look like T-Swift or any other famous actress. I don't have personal stylists coming into my mansion fixing my hair at six a.m. so I can go the grocery store. I just have a dog.

I'm an English Lit major, so I tend to find meaning where meaning isn't. Yesterday the world ended because my hair is to my shoulders, but today I looked in the mirror, sighed, and told myself that this is the way it's going to be for at least a month. Get over it. Get with it. Accept it. Werk. It. Girl.

And acceptance is worse than getting your tongue stuck to an ice cube.

Two years ago I got a phone call from my ex saying that my life stressed him out. He said that my family was too much for him, and he wasn't happy. And the thing is, I wasn't happy either. I was so afraid of being alone. I would have rather been unhappy than be alone. I was so alone even though I was with someone. I couldn't be myself. I was always being pressured. I was always having to be someone different.

I was exhausted from convincing myself that I was happy. I convinced everyone that I was happy. Oh-so-happy. I would send my sister texts about the things my ex would say; however, I left out the pet names he called me: "bitch", "most-boring-girlfriend-ever", "prude", etc. I didn't tell her when he tried to get me to change my major. When he told me he wouldn't stay with me because I wouldn't drink. When he said he wouldn't stay with me if I didn't let him touch me. When he said I was going to be poor because of my unattainable dreams.

I didn't tell her, because I didn't want her to tell me what I already knew.

Bleaching my hair just seemed like the right thing to do afterwards. I wasn't sad because we broke up, I was sad because I was alone, because I had let someone make me feel alone. I was unhappy with myself. My self-esteem was gone. I didn't have friends. I was by myself.

Then I met new friends, and I stained my hair brown. It washed out, of course, but most of the blonde had grown out by then. As the brown washed out, I lost touch with a few friends. We didn't seem to see eye-to-eye on a few things, but I was too afraid to tell them that I wasn't ready to love Jesus the way they did. I didn't want to lose them, I didn't want to be alone again.

My hair was ombré. I started going to Young Life, but I didn't want to. I still wanted to be angry that my life wasn't going the way I wanted it to. And then I started getting it trimmed, and I started going to Young Life more. And I started feeling loved. And, the most important part, I started loving myself. It was okay that my hair looked awful, and it definitely did. I started being happy, because even if I was physically alone, I wasn't mentally alone. Jesus thought my hair was awesome.

A few months went by, and I went to visit my parents. I was the happiest I had been in college, and I was by myself. I did not need anyone to make me happy, and that's when I met John. And I tell my sister the pet names he calls me: "Bertie", "Sweetheart", "Alex". And there's so much to say about him, but not yet.

So, after eleven months of dating, I decided to finally get rid of the last piece of my past unhappiness. I decided to cut off the blonde. I just didn't realize there was so much still hanging on, trying to wiggle it's way into my life. And I almost fainted when I saw how short my hair was yesterday, but today I've accepted that that blonde wasn't important. I'm still beautiful. I'm still loved. I'm still me. And I have to learn to be happy looking like this. I have to be happy in every unwanted situation. I have to love myself with short hair. I have to accept myself with short hair. And I think I do now, even though I look twelve.

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