Long. Short. Extremely short. Blue. Pink. Purple. Brown. Gorgeous. Hideous. Most people think of their lives in years; I think of mine in hairstyles. My locks have been dyed, straightened, curled, bleached, and just plain fried. There is nothing I have not tried, and lots I regret. My hairstyles have always reflected my level of maturity – and I find that as I get older, my hair gets shorter.

My early childhood was filled with hair envy. From babyhood to fourth grade, I wore a short, poker-straight bob with bangs. My mom chose it, and I loathed it. I wanted long, thick hair like Rapunzel, my favorite princess, but the only similarity between our hair was the color: white-blond. In elementary school my only goal was fitting in, but my bob refused to let me. Was hair like everyone else’s too much to ask for?

Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

When I turned ten, I vowed I would never see my hairdresser again. My hair grew and grew and grew. Every inch was a celebration. Shoulders: cake. Mid-arm: fireworks. Mid-back: tears of joy.

I was dragged back to the malevolent hairdresser when my ends had cracked more than the sidewalks of Market Street. But this cut brought a milestone: my first highlights. Immediately, I was addicted to the rotten yet delightful stench of hair dye. I couldn’t get enough of the magic ooze, and soon my hair had purple streaks. The purple morphed to blue, then pink, then orange – practically a crayon box assortment. My hair rebellion lasted throughout middle school, my peak of immaturity. I now see that it was more oh-no-no than ooh-la-la.

Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

I grew very fond of my hairdresser in high school. Every six weeks I paid her a visit, and each appointment brought a new look. First, my chin-length bangs got hacked down to an eyebrow-brimming fringe. The rest of my hair dwindled away with each visit. One inch, two inches, three inches, four. Eventually I was back to where I had started: a short bob with bangs. I relished the refound youth that came with the haircut of my early years.

Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

One fateful day during my sixteenth summer, I sliced it all off. I was lucky to have two inches of hair on any portion of my scalp. It was liberating. I’d never felt more comfortable in my own skin.

It wasn’t until I lost almost all my locks that I was pleased at last. For years I’d been searching for something that would make me feel secure. I thought an elaborate cut would provide that for me, but it only made me more uncertain. No longer did I need to hide behind a brush or a comb, a can of mousse or a bottle of dye. Finally I was mature enough to grasp that only I, not a flashy haircut, could make myself feel beautiful.