Day by day, the opposite became true.
The crown never sat the way I wanted.
One side would stick out. The other side would fall flat.
I’d smooth it down in the mirror, only to have it collapse the moment I left the house.
And the back? Almost impossible. I could never see what I was doing. I twisted and angled the brush, but it never looked right.
Some mornings it felt like I was quite literally wrestling with my own hair.
Instead of feeling free, I felt trapped in this routine that made no sense.
Even when I thought I had it under control, the style wouldn’t last.
By mid-morning, the little bit of volume I managed to build was gone.
My hair would flatten, frizz, or flip in strange directions.
And yes, I've tried everything.
Mousses. Sprays. Gels.
Nothing worked the way I hoped.
A style that looked decent in the mirror seemed to vanish before I even left the house.
I began to feel silly for ever thinking short hair would be easier.
The truth was, it felt like twice the effort with half the reward.
Some mornings, I rushed through it, half-heartedly brushing and hoping it looked passable.
Other times, I gave up completely and threw on a hat.
What stung most wasn’t just the bad hair days.
It was how it made me feel walking out the door—unpolished, unfinished, and not quite myself.