The past few years, I started to grow my hair out. Now I’m quite attached to it, all however many inches it is (am I supposed to measure it?), and fear for even the teeniest bit of its removal. So my haircut this past Saturday was sort of a big deal.

While my hairdresser was sudsing my mop pre-snip, we had the standard Q&A exchange: How often did I wash my hair? (Every 4 days.) Did I want conditioner? (Yes, please.) Did I blow dry it? (I try.)

And then, the money question: Did I wish to continue growing it long?

“I think so…” I replied with hesitancy. I was fully prepared to be shut down. I was still reeling from last summer, when my mother told me the Rapunzel look wasn’t working. That smarted. And this woman was a hair care professional. The stakes were much higher. (For one thing, she was wielding scissors.)

But, she didn’t shut me down. Instead, she wanted me to grow it long — really long. Like just above the butt-hump long. Longer, actually, than I’d like. Way longer. So long that, save place-of-employment dress codes, I mightn’t need upper-body clothing coverage from July through September. That I might start dreaming as Alanis Morissette. Or Cranston.

But I wouldn’t be alone. I’d be joining two of her other clients — her special clients. Her show-pony clients. Her *STAR* clients. 

“They both have hair down to [pointing at a spot far down on her back] here. And it’s healthy! And it looks beautiful! And they STAND OUT!” She was getting excited, and fairly animated. A little crazed, even.

Then I entered her orbit. Did I want to stand out? Those two other girls were blonde. Did I want to join them, but as a dark-haired addition? WAS I IN?

Her spiel entranced me. I felt like I had been selected for inclusion in a glamorous girl group, like the Carrie Nations. And if we got a redhead — imagine the possibilities! (It may also have been the first time I was asked to be a part of something? But we don’t have to get into that right now.)

The other thought that sprung to mind was: this was my moment. Brunettes represent! Barbie and Skipper were on the move. They had it goin’ on. Was Midge ready to step up and join them?

In the end, the whole discussion was inconsequential. I was going for a haircut, after all. Guess what? My hair got shorter. Will I grow my hair out longer than it was before Saturday’s splicing? Only time can tell.

In the meanwhile, and following up on the Mattel tip, check out these Barbies all done up like Lady Gaga. Righteous! Tiny styling rules. 

By the way, I’m Allison, the newest Moose blogger. I was born in NYC and now reside in Boston, Mass. I suppose I enjoy the Eastern seaboard, but I am also very excited to be virtually “here” at Moose HQ in Australia. Till next time…