Tomorrow I am getting a hair cut.

Currently, my hair is so long I look that girl from the ring, but if she had a middle part. Why? For many reasons: I’m lazy, incredibly stingy (the last hut cut I paid for involved an exchange of vodka, and before that my trims only costed $13), and also because I’m the kind of person who likes to hold on to things for an unnecessarily long amount of time in case they come in handy. And this is often because the things I keep DO come in handy.

At this stage, I think it’s pretty clear that I have an over-active imagination to the point where it almost becomes unhealthy (“almost” meaning “without a doubt”). And sometimes I imagine how handy my long locks would come.

Sure, the fact that it occasionally gets stuck in the armpits of strangers on the dance floor is mildly inconvenient and grossly off-putting, these strands of mine do more than disguise how misshaped my head is.

For one, I can use it as a scarf/shawl. Nothing helps you make a decision on how to dress for the day than knowing you have a back-up plan for unexpectedly chilly weather growing from your scalp. It also looks really fancy. Secondly, it’s a great shield to strategically put between me and another person I don’t want to talk to. More importantly, if I ever get into a kidnap situation I feel I would be able to use my hair to strangle the baddie, and then, if things get really serious, I would be able to pull out strands and weave them into a rope. Snigger if you want, but I’ll be the one laughing when you and your cute crop are in a Saw situation and I’m selling my survival story to Sixty Minutes (well, I probably wouldn’t laugh on-camera, because that wouldn’t do wonders for my public image).

But tomorrow, I’m getting the ‘do did. Technically, I’m getting the ends trimmed, but because the last time someone cut my hair was two Septembers ago, I feel like I’m going to walk out with a buzz cut to get rid of those split ends. And so there goes my back up scarf, my excuse for ignoring people, and my chances of having Tara Brown pretend to be interested in my life.

But I can’t help but feel that it’s more than my lust for fame and desire to avoid morons that’s plaguing me. Because, when I really think about it, my hair is all I have. Like Jo March, my hair is my one beauty, and the only thing that can distract people from my dysfunctional ways. My hair is my identity, and even though people might question whether the length signifies my membership of a cult, I wonder what people will refer to me as when they don’t know me. Will it be “that girl with Bret Tate’s chin” or “that girl with the glasses” or will it be worse: are they attempt to identify me by my personality traits? Because that is one troubling thought.