Look, I don’t want to get a bob ok? I’ve thought about it a lot, and I just don’t.
I know that’s a disappointment to you, and I’m sorry. I know you want me to cut all my hair off.
You say you don’t, but I know you do really. I can see the silvery glint in your eye. I know that if I ever said the words “maybe a bob?” you would have me in a chair with a towel round my shoulders faster than I can google pictures of Fleabag’s sister.
You want me to cut all my hair off in the same way I want you to cut all your hair off, because then we get to live the thrill vicariously with none of the regret. It’s a game of chicken. It’s the same reason we all encourage each other to get married in a bridal jumpsuit.
But stupidly long hair has been part of my personal aesthetic for more than a decade now. Ever since I stopped bleaching it into submission and Mane ‘n’ Tail first arrived on my radar, the ketamine of the shampoo and conditioner world. Back in the early days, a horsey friend used to buy it in bulk online and distribute it in the pub like contraband. It’s the closest I’ve come to being a Pony Girl since the Jill books.
And yes, I’m aware my long hair is every cliché. A security blanket, a curtain to hide behind, a Rapunzel complex, a hobby and a pastime (you can't beat playing count-the-split-ends on a quiet night in). I've spent the best part of my adult life cultivating it like a beloved houseplant. I have pruned it and misted it, fed it with nutrients and shaded it from direct sunlight. I've probably worked harder on my hair than anything I've ever been paid for. And now the world wants me to cut it all off.
Firstly the beauty press, who are so determined to set the scissors on me that they invent a new pithy term for a new kind of short haircut at least once a week. The “bell bottom bob”, the “baroque bob”, the “mushroom bob”, the “micro bob”, the “soft box bob”, the “flipped bob”, the “kitty cut bob”, the “grown-out French bob”, the “jellyfish bob” and the “Sideshow bob” are all variants pushed by Refinery29 in the last calendar year. I only made one of those up.
Secondly, the more potent influence: cool girls on Instagram, who are falling over themselves to cut their hair off and reassure us that they’re still hot without it. Falling over themselves in a cute way that accentuates their collarbones. A way that is somehow French? Le whoops! All the cool messy bobs have started to make my long, tonged waves feel naff and dated, like that episode of Seinfeld where Elaine’s friend has a stiff helmet hairdo; a reference that in itself makes me a dusty antique.
Then there are the friends and acquaintances, who push the idea of a haircut not so much out of taste but concern. Isn’t it a lot of work? (Yes). Doesn’t it take ages to dry it? (Yes). Do I worry one day it’ll get caught beneath the wheel of an open-topped sports car, like Isadora Duncan’s scarf? (Constantly). These are kind people, sensible people; people who see me staggering around beneath my big cloak of hair, complaining about being too hot all the time, and gently ask if there might be a connection.
When I was pregnant, more than one person asked me if I was going to cut my hair.
I scoffed at first, at the still-prevalent idea of ‘mum hair’ needing to be neat and respectable; of a woman being ushered forcefully into her frump era by dint of her womb. Then I discovered what they actually meant, which is that babies have no respect for your hair. They will swing from it like tiny Tarzans. There is now a sticky little fist wound deep into my hair every night at exactly the point where she’s nodding off, so I can’t even scream when it hurts. If I tie it up she grabs my fringe and sideburns instead, in protest. So I just breathe through the pain and let her tug, tug, tug, and in that moment I think: yes, maybe everyone was right, maybe I should cut it all off before this descends into masochism. I fantasise about walking straight into the kitchen as soon as she’s finally down, picking up the scissors we use to cut pizza, and doing the deed. Jo, your one beauty!
But then she falls asleep, and the urge passes. After all, what if I cut it and she never fell asleep again?
Thing is, kids grow quicker than hair does. Blink a few times and she’ll be out of the sleepy tugging phase, whereas this mane took YEARS to establish. Maybe it’s a form of sunk cost fallacy, to hang on because I’ve already invested so much time and effort and Mane ‘n’ Tail money. Or maybe it’s because I know that fashion is fickle, and most of those bobbed girlies will be queuing up for mermaid extensions again in a hot minute. By being stubbornly unfashionable now, I’m actually way ahead of the curve. Right? Right. Me and Chappell Roan, blazing a trail.
Besides, there are some benefits.
“I know it might be liberating to cut it shorter,” I wrote eight years ago, also for R29. “How nice it would be not to have to yank it painfully out from under my handbag strap once every 40 seconds, or constantly singe it on the gas hob. But stupid long hair has its uses too — it doubles up as a scarf, a bib, and a mask against bad smells on public transport. By wrapping myself in a blanket of my own dead protein, just think how much I’ve saved on wedding pashminas.”
Look, I know you want me to get a bob, but not everyone does. My husband, who on hearing I was considering the chop, yelped and then acquired the distinctive, pained expression of an enlightened man trying very hard not to say something un-enlightened.
“That’s cool, I’m sure it would look great, obviously it’s totally your choice, it’s your hair, honey, totally, that’s, um, cool…” He went on like this for a while, spluttering like stuck machinery, until I thumped him on the back and he coughed out the truth:
“I like your hair long.”
And really is that such a patriarchal crime? After all, I like his nose hair short. I like his beard at a precise length between ‘stubble’ and ‘pot scourer’. I buy him clothes, I nag him about skincare, I trim his eyebrows when they start to look like Dennis Healy. Aren’t we allowed to have preferences? Aren’t we all deep down just monkeys, grooming each other for bugs? Have I spent my entire adult life growing my hair this long, only to get angry when my husband likes it?
“But obviously it’s your hair, that’s cool, I’m sure it’ll look great…” he went back to murmuring.
Look, this is no disrespect to your lifestyle – some of my best friends have bobs! I love them on other people. I love pixie crops on other people. I love natural curls and ironic shags and slicked-down side partings and fun hair claws and liberating undercuts on other people. If life was Sliding Doors and we could live two parallel lives with two radically different hairdos, maybe I’d go for my life and see what a bare neck feels like.
But when you only have one life and you’ve spent it in training for the title of Best Writer’s Hair – Category: Blonde, Long (I thought I had a shot at second place behind Lucy Vine until I saw a photo of Coco Mellors) it is simply too hard to give up the dream.
So no, I’m sorry, I don’t want to get a bob. Not even a lob, or a fob, or a spob, or whatever the next pithy rebrand is. I only have to ride out the next 15 years or so until I can be a Cool Older Woman with long grey tresses down to my waist, who wears clogs and linen smocks and always has the correct herbs, and there’s no way I’m passing up that opportunity.
Just leave me be, please. Take your Margot Robbie Pinterest boards elsewhere and go shame somebody else’s hobbies. These split ends won’t count themselves!
What’s that, sorry? Ohh you asked when I was going to get a job?
That’s fair, I apologise. My mistake.
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Ha! Loved it. "the ketamine of the shampoo and conditioner world" and "dead protein" had me. Also here for the antique Seinfeld refs 🔥
Hilarious! Do we reckon women think about getting a bob as much as men think about the Roman Empire 😂