Get Your Hair Did

Exhibit: A

For every woman who's been duped into thinking that boys are suckers for long blonde hair, I say nay. We are not your father's suitors. We are moved by cuts of all kinds. This is a love letter to short hair and the brave women it grows from. "Short," for our purposes, will refer to hair that is longer than mine, but not longer than the shoulders. See Exhibit: A for a prime example of proper length, cut, and style. To those daring enough to cut their locks, proceed like Icarus. The head is your sun. One should not fly too close. Hair can be too short.

Crushes are, at their core, capricious. They are flimsy and without substance. Mine are no different. I get giddy and dumb like the best of us. Based on exaggerations of features we find attractive, crushes turn humans into ideals. Motorcycle guy. Busty bartender girl. What makes me slack-jawed and stupid is unique; that is to say that I've never met anyone with my affliction. I develop infatuations based solely on a girl's hair. I love it. I love it inexplicably and with all my (crush) heart. If my crushes were the canon of literature, English grad students would pore over the theme of short hair. Welcome to my weird corner of the world.

I've had crushes born and mangled by a haircut. Crushes that live and die by the scissor. One fell swoop. Hair is the frame of the face and in the case of my crushes, the frame decides whether I'm looking at postmodern or motel art. It is my favorite trivial feature of a woman. Short hair--of any color, but often and undeniably red--is my kryptonite. Excuse the metaphor that makes me and Superman one and the same, but a straightened, a-line bob will forever turn my head.

Where the good hair is, you will find my crush. Where you find the drab, lifeless ponytail; the wild, untamed curls of unstraightened locks; and the long, flowing hair that tickles the middle of the spine, my crush isn't. These are my preferences and I do not apologize.

I raise my water glass to the sky and toast the gods of the short hair. May their ends forever be united. May their colors never run. May their scissors always stay a steadfast course. An undying lighthouse eagerly awaits your arrival in my sheltered harbor.

As for Medusa and her sisters, send your ships to the seas farthest from my port. May you find safe passage elsewhere.