For the last few years it's been longer than waist length and before I cut it, it was at tail bone length.
It was my pride and joy, I loved my hair.
I brushed it thoroughly every day, I soaked it in conditioner, I even oiled it. I would avoid washing it in order to try and keep it healthy (before you think 'ew', you'd be amazed at what the aforementioned brushing could do to keep it presentable).
I'd plait it every night before bed, I bought a shower cap so I could keep it dry while I showered between washes, I bought satin scrunchies, I even bought a satin scarf to put on at night.
|One o' these.|
I looked after my hair like I was a middle class Edwardian housewife.
It was my crowning glory and I treated it as such.
But then I got ill, and I just kept getting iller.
It got to the point that I couldn't even muster up the motivation to brush my hair everyday. I'd leave it in a ponytail or bun for days at a time, and it inevitably ended up getting matted and de-matting it turned into a distressingly frequent task.
I thought about cutting it for months, but I kept putting it off, just getting it trimmed occasionally.
But then I had to stop ignoring it. I'd been mistreating it to the point where I had splits halfway up hair shafts and I was constantly finding split ends. And once there are split ends, there's nothing that can be done to salvage it, it needs to be cut off.
I'd have to cut nearly half of it off anyway, so I decided to get a bob.
So I went from this:
And let me tell you, I don't regret it at all.
I'll follow up with another post about writing hair with my experience of having long hair and some of the things I'd learned about long hair in history during my time as a brunette Rapunzel.