In the past two years my hair has gone from being this curly:

to what could only be called “wavy” if you’re feeling generous. My hair has betrayed me, and now I don’t know what to do with it.

In the winter I cut it even shorter, hoping for a Jean Seberg look:
But, in the words of the wife in a Hemingway short story*, “I get so tired of looking like a boy.”

It’s been nearly 10 years since I had long hair; I didn’t do anything special with my hair when it was long (although it was curly then, AHEM, HAIR); and I know I would hate growing it out. But. I find myself staring at pictures of braids and long glossy hair and echoing that Hemingway character:
“I want to pull my hair back tight and smooth and make a big knot at the back that I can feel. . . . And I want to eat at a table with my own silver and I want candles. And I want it to be spring and I want to brush my hair out in front of a mirror and I want a kitty and I want some new clothes.”

In other words, I don’t know what I want.

*The story is “Cat in the Rain,” from In Our Time.