Everyone got a bob this summer. My coworker got a bob, my favorite customer got a bob, my mail person got a bob, hell, I got a bob! I feel like I’m in a fuzzy ad from the ‘90s on Disney, turning to the camera in my acid-washed denim and thick purple hoops telling everyone to “get a bob!” during the commercial break of Boy Meets World. Like a mom on some crazy kind of diet, I’ve been blurting out how “fantastic I feel” all the time. I can’t even remember who I was before this! 

I was me, in May, starting a new medication, moving out of my childhood home, and coming out of a situationship that I invested too much of my energy into. My hair was long, falling down my back in ringlets. The layers had grown out and the weight of it was heavy and hot. My pinterest boards were filled with models and people with curly bobs, the smiles on their faces convinced me that their hair was the root of their happiness. I needed a chop. This bob represented more than a new hairstyle, it represented a change of pace. 

The last time I had my hair this short, I was 12. It was a time in my life where I was so unaware of myself that everything felt like a blur. I don’t think my personality had developed yet. When I see old videos of myself, I can feel the discomfort: feverishly tucking my frizzy hair behind my ears, my eyes darting around, my posture curved. 

Flash forward to this June. 

I slid my hand up the back of my neck, the leftover snippings coat it like fur. My barber, a friend of 10 years and the person singing along to her disco playlist, cleans her scissors in the kitchen sink. I step over the mounds of curly hair littering the floor and creep toward the bathroom as if I’m Dracula, darting in between the windows and reflective surfaces. I enter the bathroom and squeeze my eyes shut, terrified at what I’m going to see in the mirror. I open my eyes and my head starts to throb.

I finger the curls that frame my face, the face of a girl I haven’t seen in years. I’m afraid of what I see. I feel like I’m falling backward. Eight inches gone. If only glue could fix regret.

The person I see in front of me is a version of myself I wanna leave in my seventh grade classroom, hoisting up jeggings and pulling her crew neck down to cover her belly. Looking down, I’m surprised to not see the pink converse littered with classmates’ signatures that I’d wear everyday to school, a symbol of my validity, of my existence.

I come out of the bathroom and grab my mousse, leave-in conditioner and hair-dryer. I scrunch, shake, and flip my hair from side to side, granting it volume and trying to make up for something I think I was lacking at 12. The curls emerge, bouncy and light, unshackled from the length and weight of long hair.

A few days pass and I’ve held my hair up in pigtails and hair clips to hide it. I still haven’t been able to recognize myself yet. After a shower one day, my mom cups my face and kisses me on the forehead, “You look so beautiful, I love your hair.” I feel like a kid again.

Flash forward to a week later.

After trial and error,  I slowly became accustomed to my bob. Bobs are the best accessory, so I put on fun ‘fits all week. My hair has dried nicely and bounces around my cheeks. I put on some chunky purple earrings that I thrifted. I look in the mirror. I look really gay.  At 20, my body has stopped growing and changing so much. She’s settled. I’ve settled. My hair parts down the middle now, no need to adjust so much. I see a version of myself that my seventh grade counterpart would be happy to be. 

If you’re looking to get a bob, go back and look at a picture of yourself in the seventh grade. Ask yourself if you’re okay with speaking to that person again, accessing those feelings, and finally accepting them. Change is the only thing we can rely on, right? So, lean into it. Get the cut. Embrace the change. Plus, haircuts don’t look good until about a week later anyways.