I first wrote about donating my hair to Locks of Love back in January. At the time I had six inches of donatable hair. Locks of Love requires that you have ten inches of hair to donate, so I have been growing it and growing it.
Since about April my girlfriends have been saying, "Oh, look. Your hair must be ten inches by now."
I have been breaking out the tape measure every couple of weeks since then. It must be ten inches by now, I thought. Look at how long it is!
Since we've been teenagers, women have been lied to and mislead. What we're told is eight inches is really six. What lucky ones of us are told is ten inches is really eight. We hear it from sex partners and porn stars and the Internet. (But not from secure husbands.)
It's the rule of minus two. (With secure husbands as the exception that proves the rule.)
(Do you think I've covered my ass enough yet?)
This misconception about length has somehow permeated our feminine conscience.
As best I can tell, I really do have ten inches now. It's hard to measure by myself. But for some reason, I am hesitant to go ahead and cut it off. (I'm talking about my donatable hair now, of course.)
I guess I don't trust the number on the ruler. I guess I feel like if ten inches is good, than twelve inches would be better. Yet I can't wait to get rid of this blanket of hair. In this 100+ degree heat, I am absolutely miserable. I'm like a dog with a winter coat.
And my hair looks awful. It's so long and heavy it drags my face down. It covers my shoulders and makes me look like I'm wearing a shall all the time.
I'm tempted to keep growing it until my husband comes home, just because he's never seen me with hair this long. And I'm tempted to go to the salon tomorrow and ask for the shortest bob they can give me.
I think I'm going to try to keep it until fall at least.
It's amazing what a woman will do for a couple of inches.