It’s gotten worse over the years, the Miller Men dominance over my hair. It started when Jeremy was a toddler, when he insisted I not wear a ponytail but instead, “wear it down.” I always did as he asked because it was adorable to have a two-year-old consult me on my hairstyle, but now I realize I set the standard for every man in this house to have a vote on what happens to my hair. Go lighter? No! Leave it dark? Yes! Cut it shorter? NEVER!
Two years ago I rebelled against the system and cropped it.
I loved it like this – the color, the cut, the ease of it all – but no one else in the house liked it. Not one bit. There was confusion, pursed lips, and silence. Saying nothing was better than saying, “It’s too short.”
Right now, my hair is longish. It settles somewhere around my shoulder blades. I can wrap it in a high bun or curl it or straighten it or even do that Katniss Everdeen side-braid-thing. Most of the time, it’s fun. Occasionally, it’s smothering. ALL three boys love it, compliment it, and tell me regularly, “Grow it longer!”
Am I the boss of me or what?
My birthday is in August. I may or may not treat myself to the haircut of my choice. Miller Men, you’ve been warned.