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I cut my hair this week. Well, I didn't cut it — I had a hairdresser do the job.

I don't have very long hair. I used to, though. It hung to the middle of my back in all its curly glory. But the long shape of my face combined with the long, curly hair gave the impression of a cocker spaniel, floppy ears and all.

So I cut my hair short — very short. The two-inch brown stuff that was left looked funky and fun. Well, it would have, had I had the small, heart-shaped face required to pull off a pixie cut like that.

I ended up with a hairstyle somewhere in the middle, a length above my shoulders but below my jaw line.

"Short," I said firmly to the hairdresser this week. "Fun. Funky. Flou," I waved my hands about, trying to convey a messy yet charming hairstyle that would make me look young and wild.

And there's the catch: I want to look young and wild. I want to look like a free spirit full of confidence and sassy attitude. I want to have it goin' on, girlfriend.

I don't want to look middle-aged and run down. I don't want to look tired anymore. I want to find some way to attract attention and make myself look appealing.

I want men to look at me.

I don't even necessarily want a man. I have one. He's a little screwed up and we fight sometimes, but hey. I still have feelings for the guy and we have a history. We're working on it.

But I want to know that I'm still attractive, used goods and all. I want to know that my life isn't over, that I could still turn heads and get a man if I wanted one. I want to be desirable — not just to one man, but to many.

I think I want to know that I'm still worth a second glance and that if my ex and I do decide that we just can't make it work, that I won't be alone.

"You cut your hair." My ex examined the shorter, sassier mess of curls. "I liked it better longer."

So much for great expectations.


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