For large spans of my life I seemed like the type of girl who was about to chop all of my hair off into a boy short cut. Spunk, sexual confusion, admiration for Gwyneth Paltrow in the movie Sliding Doors, I don't know. People asked for it. I considered it. La di da di da. Never happend.
I needed a rule to launch me in: Cut my hair short when I was thin enough to have the cheek bones to support it. I was thinking being a waifish pixie was my ticket to the androgenous carnival of modern fun and amusement. For the first time in my life, I'm being confronted with accidental weight loss. I'm riding my bike and climbing mountians, and I'm just dropping weight. This is weight that I was happy to carry around. I stored it in my pants and pranced it around proudly. Now, it's leaving me. As with most of my plans and expectations, turns out, my rule blows. A pixie cut is the farthest thing from a solution.
If my body is going to muscle up and drop signs of feminity there is only one solution: Bigger, Busslinger, Possibly Brighter Hair. Watch out. I may start teasing the shit up.