I chopped off a fair bit of my hair last week on a whim. As I am not a 'whim' sort or person, this is a Big Deal. I'm neurotic and vain and prone to major anxiety over un-major crap, so usually I agonise over any big changes in my hair style (and yes, a fringe is a big change in my book). I mean, I find a zillion photos ("I like the pieceyness of this one, but the length isn't quite right, this one is more the texture I'm after, but not so full" are among the annoying things I've said during rambling monologues with long-suffering hairdressers). I ask a billion people. I decide against the change. Then continue to canvas friends for months. Change my mind another hundred times, then, finally do it. Within a month, I decide that I'll probably just grow the fringe/bob/layers out. And so the anxious cycle begins again. So I surprised myself when I turned up at a new hairdresser my friend Millie had recommended (already scary, not because Millie recommended her, but because I don't trust hairdressers until they at least know the entire ins and outs of why I broke up with my first boyfriend) and asked whether they thought a trim was in order, or a bob, and then said go for it when they advised the latter. Once I saw all the hair coming off I had a silent freak out ("What have I done?! This is a terrible mistake! Michael is going to be so mad!") but I'm pretty happy with how it turned out. I was worried that I'd get sick of it, and about what Michael would think. Like most men, he likes long hair, which is why I always seem to end up growing mine out ("I really miss your long hair" wears you down after a while). Allegedly, he likes the chop (or he just knows what's good for him). As for whether I'll get sick of it, I guess I'll just have to wait and see. So, here it is, fresh and straight from the hairdresser's and on the weekend after I washed it and let it dry (mostly) naturally. Apologies for my extreme resting bitch fact in picture numero uno, change room selfies are not my forte.