Story time with Heather's Hair Dysmorphic Disorder.

I went through this phase many, many eons ago when I was trying to grow my hair out from some sort of "not-quite-like-the-photo" haircut, and in an attempt to sexy-it-up I colored it a truly heinous, not-found-in-nature, also "not-quite-like-the-photo" shade of dimensionless black.

It was straight-up Alan Rickman in Harry Potter.

I was seeing Snape every time I looked in the mirror.

I'm kind of having one of those moments now. Not that it's a horrible shade of teenager-black. Not that it's choppy and Rickman-esque. Just that I've changed it...and every time I look in the mirror, I see a bad haircut.

Okay. It will make more sense if I tell a fantastic little story.......

The story begins long, long ago in an ancient land of blow-drying, drug store self-coloring and all manners of vicious heat styling, where a girl-warrior fought valiantly to beat her unruly, wavy hair into peaceful submission.

The girl-warrior desperately wanted the longest, prettiest hair in all of the Kingdom of Tresses. To her waist was (is) the plan. But in her greedy, length-loving eagerness, the warrior decided to forgo regular trims. Her demoralized, brow-beaten, angst-ridden hair shriveled up in listless abandon. Tried to make a break for it at every opportunity. Was willing to break itself in half if it meant being spared another round of curling, flat-ironing, flat-ironing THEN curling...they couldn't take any more.

The girl-warrior looked at photographs of herself from years ago and realized that her once peaceful locks had...gone rogue. Without scissors or trimming, her hair had lost the will to live, it's will (and it's many split ends) had been broken. Off. Broken off. Inches gone over the course of a few years.

Trims. In her narcissistic quest to rule the Kingdom of Tresses she'd lost her greatest ally - her hair itself. The damage was irreparable and -- the girl realized -- without emergency care, the great army on her head would only continue to wither and break.

In despair, the warrior grabbed a pair of kitchen scissors.

As she chopped away, excising the dead bits, hoping it wasn't altogether too late to save, she had a moment of panic. She realized just how much of her warrior identity was wrapped up in those poor, tortured, lifeless strands of hair. Strands which were now swimming in the toilet, finally free, finally released from their split, fried, frizzy suffering.

Without them, the girl wasn't sure whether she could go on. Her curling irons and straighteners taunted her, she could hear them whisper...."just you try to curl that hair now. your dreams of having Stacy London hair are gone - GONE down the drain! You're AVERAGE now - ORDINARY. Enjoy your tepid, VANILLA hair, Princess - bwuahahahahah."

"What have I done?" the warrior-girl screeched in a panic, tugging at the ends of her shorn, clipped (fine, HEALTHIER) hair, wishing that she could will it to grow. But it was not to be. In order for her ultimate domination of the Kingdom of Tresses to come to fruition, she'd have to nurture, love, care desperately for the strands left on her head.

Regular trims.

Banishment of the flat iron to nether regions unknown.

Recommissioning of the Great Hot Oil Treatment.

Forgiveness.

Only then would she perch upon the thrown of Ultimate Hair Domination.

The End.

Basically.

So, here's what we're left with:

And here is how I know I have Hair Dysmorphic Disorder: I look in the mirror and see SHORT hair. And I panic. Because, truly, like the spoiled hair warrior kid, the closer my hair grew to my waist, the better I felt. And now, seeing this stuff hanging there barely past my collarbone may as well be a pixie cut (ooh, but don't tempt me, I've gone there before) for all the glamour I feel I'm left with.

Seriously.

I may as well have shaved my head. I'm experiencing a crisis of identity. Where is my hair? Where is Heather?

And that's completely ridiculous, because, as I can see in the picture, I have plenty of hair left. And it's happier, healthier, more well-adjusted hair less likely to make a break for Mexico when I'm not looking. No, really, I could run my hands through my hair and it would break off into tiny pieces. I could grab a piece and barely tug and it would break. It wasn't pretty.

But, with enough silicone and curling ironing and punishing into submission it could manage to look pretty.

It was abuse, however. My poor hair deserved better. Continues to deserve better. Therefore, I'm going to lavish all the love, attention, and healthy habits as possible on this new hair so that it will grow to be lovely, strong, dependable hair. So that I can blow dry it without seeing tiny pieces like confetti in the bathroom sink afterward.

Seriously. It was that bad.

Maybe it's time to invest in some actual hair scissors. So that I don't have to send the kitchen shears through the dishwasher every time it's time for a snip.