Hair.

I know it seems like a trivial thing in the wake of, um, growing human life. But I watched the remains of my hair fall onto the floor yesterday. Inches upon inches. Or, seven.

That's more, though, than I've cut off in over a decade, since my mom decided I was old enough to leave alone at the salon to tell the stylist what I wanted.

I could sit on my hair back then, and when she asked me if I wanted a "bob," my 9-year-old self thought that sounded like a delightful thing to have and enthusiastically nodded yes before breaking into hysterics when she cut IT ALLLLL OFF. I've never fully recovered, and I've kept my hair unmanageably long since then.

That is until yesterday, when I decided that I no longer had the time or patience to keep it up.

Luckily, the stylist didn't let me go as short as I wanted. You can always chop more off, she said. And the still scarred 9-year-old inside of me nearly died with gratitude.

It's not "short" by any means. But it's significantly shorter than it was yesterday, when it was inches past my boobs (which now hurt so badly the lack of HAIR hitting them almost feels like a relief).

I still want it shorter.

Baby steps.