My new bob aged 43
When I was about to turn 30, the expression of my quarter-life crisis was unimaginative: I cut my long hair into a short bob. I didn’t want to turn 30: it felt as if I was inching one foot closer to decrepitude (how I wish I could go back in time to throw a shoe at my head), and heralded the end of fun things. Or at least, being able to shrug off bad decisions as a consequence of being young and inexperienced.
Because human beings are horribly bad at adapting to new ideas, we still entertain the belief that 30 is old, that it is a halfway point, when it no longer is. It’s not exactly young, because it does become intolerable to stay three-in-a-bed in shitty hotels or put up with bad friends, or bad food, but it is nowhere near being old. It’s not even an adjacent continent, and spoiler! You’re still capable of making inexperienced, bad decisions, hence the bob.
I didn’t know that a good hairdresser – if you can afford it – is not a frivolous expenditure. That even if you have a budget, to do some research around what is the best option in your price bracket, or take a personal recommendation versus the first person that popped up on Google with a free appointment. That it really does make a difference between say, you looking like Uma Thurman in Pulp Fiction and one of the mushrooms in Super Mario Brothers.
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