Mid-life Crisis in Hair

I have never been accused of being a fashionista.  I am about as plain Jane as you get.  I rarely wear makeup, have never dyed my hair, and have no idea how to use a straightener.  For decades my approach to my appearance has been to let my hair grow as long as possible then cut it to my shoulders and donate the remnants. 

The advent of my divorce has thrown all that into chaos.  In the last six months, I have had almost as many haircuts.  I didn't even know you could cut your hair that frequently without becoming bald!  I've learned to straighten it with my blow dryer and a round brush.  I've purchased an actual diffuser to add more curl.  Sometimes I just blow the snot out of it, get it as wild as possible, and top it off with some spray wax. 

As an aside, may I just say that my Paul Mitchell spray wax is my absolute FAVORITE hair product?  I've never before met a product that worked in every situation, but this one has for me.  Going straight?  Tame and define with spray wax.  Going curly?  Scrunch and lift with spray wax.  Don't have time for a shower?  A little spray wax will save the day. 

Great product.  Love it.  Use it EVERY DAY!  Except today.  I was hanging home fixing fence . . . without a shower . . . and my ridiculous hair looked amazing . . . because I used spray wax yesterday! 

To get back to the hairstyle issue, I have to admit I've actually liked most of my recent cuts.  Including the current one.  So why did I just squander 30 minutes pinning an entire board of short hair cuts in preparation for tomorrow's visit to the salon?  Why can't I just keep it the same and be content? 

I am choosing to blame it on my divorce-inspired mid-life crisis.  (Would I have undergone a mid-life crisis apart from a divorce?  Possibly.  But why waste a perfectly good, perfectly unassailable excuse?!)

Maybe I'm searching for the "ideal me."  (It's a good thing my counselors are going on vacation, because the combination of those two words would drive them to the brink!)  They keep emphasizing that I am not, never will be, and never was expected to be perfect.  In any way.  My mind assents.  My soul . . . not so much.  But I'm trying. 

Maybe I'm just tired of being plain Jane.  On the inside, I am--or used to be, anyway--vivacious and effervescent and a little off the wall.  On the outside, I'm a middle-aged, cast-off mother of two lining up to join the First Wives' Club.  Ugh!  No wonder I need a change!  Who wants to be that?!

I think I'd like to look in the mirror, and see reflected back that girl who used to ride horseback at midnight in a dark wood at a canter, oblivious to the fact that she couldn't see a thing and was trusting her life to a 1,000-pound animal.  The girl who could laugh herself hoarse.  The girl who smiled at strangers.  The girl who smiled. 

A haircut doesn't really change anything.  I know that.  But perhaps I like the illusion that I can successfully transform something . . . if only the length of my locks.  And who knows?  Maybe the illusion is enough to start me on the road to actualization.