Just a trim.

"Just a trim to keep the ends healthy?" This I totally believed kept my tresses looking good. Apparently I was wrong.

The new stylist in the posh kensington salon leaned in for a closer examination. Her face filled with disgust. "At least 6 inches, what the hell did your person in Vancouver do to your hair?" she said with her icy voice.

If only I had been the kind of person who did not listen to somebody simply because she was skinny and had a sleek black Bob and treated me as If I was a total mess, this story would have ended right here. Instead, I followed her to her to her chair. An hour later and $100 poorer and practically scalped I walked out into Kensington Market a different person. My long hair had been cut into a wedge not the Bob I had been promised. Even worse, as the blonde locks fell to the floor, I was left with what lay beneath them, mousy brown roots. damn. I kept peering at my reflection in various store windows as I walked by them.

That haircut stayed with me for about 2 years, whenever I tried to grow it out, I got weird wings on the side of my face that made me look like a flying nun. I tried to adapt to the change, I wore my hair in tiny pigtails, painted on highlights more frequently, I even had it died it jet black, trying to make the best out of a bad situation. My stupid hair was constantly on my mind. Then I had a brilliant idea - I thought that various shades of bright red lipstick would draw attention away from my stupid hair straight to my lips. I had a basket full of every shade of red Mac and Estee Lauder sold back in the day.

I had no lack of male attention. I was glad I attracted suitors due to my wit and smarts, rather than a gorgeous head of blond hair. Truth be told, I missed the weight of all that hair on my back and shoulders. I missed the way men grabbed into it when we kissed.

That was it. I decided to grow it out. Over the next few years and a few close calls with hair dressers (Caprice.. we should cut it all off.. you have to go short to go long...) I endured the protracted growing-out process. Call me shallow or narcissistic, but i liked the way men admired it. I liked walking around Granville island with my long coat, black boots and yes, abundant blonde hair.

That was 10 years ago. I was a 30 year old without enough self confidence to ignore bad advice. The fact that at my age I have the same hair that I so stupidly allowed somebody to take away from me does not mean that I am not moving forward. It means that I have arrived at a place that I feel fan fucking tastic and I won't let it be taken away from me again.