It was December of 2009 and I was celebrating my 25 ½ year “birthday” with a trip to the hair dresser. In my hand was a magazine cut out of Elisha Cuthbert, one of the stars from the popular TV show, 24. Her hair was cropped mid-neck in a style that is known by some as a shag. Her choppy, uneven bangs screamed confidence and more than a little of what my mom likes to call sass. Many have considered Miss Cuthbert one of the most attractive young women in Hollywood, possibly right up there with the likes of Megan Fox. All I knew is that she was gorgeous and liked to kick terrorists’ butts. I was down with that.
For the past ten years, however, I had kept my hair shoulder length with only slight variations to the style, sometimes trimming a few layers here and there, so it seemed as if I had acquired a new look when really I had only lost an inch or two of hair. I had refused to try anything remotely risky after receiving a disastrous haircut in the tenth grade that left me cursing all scissors and hairstylists for months until my poor strands began to grow again.
So why the new hair cut, in light of my previous short hair tragedy? I was tired of my life and the sameness of it all. The same bland dates, the same look, the same mindless waiting for something “big” to happen that would change the routine of existence which I called my life. And I supposed that if anything was going to change, it had to start with me. Having the same hair style, year after year, had become safe, and, obviously, safe was not producing results. So, I went in, got six inches of my hair lopped off, dyed it auburn, and walked out into the crisp winter afternoon. The air smelled clean, fresh from the recent rain which washed away the pollution from the asphalt, leaving the skies blue and clear. I, too, felt clear headed with the power of new vision.
At home, I took a few self-portraits and then loaded the pictures onto my computer. Within minutes of posting a picture of my new self to Facebook, I had comments flying in from all parts of the country. One friend commented, “Wow! You look like Amy Adams in Julie and Julia.” Another, a former student, told me, “Great new look Miss McMahon! Gorgeous!” She, of course, followed this up with a preponderance of smiley faces and winks for effect.
I suppose you never really know if people are being honest when they comment on your hair. I’ll admit I’ve lied to friends in the past when I didn’t like their haircuts. I mean, who wants to hurt someone’s feelings when you can so easily tell a white lie which makes them feel good about themselves? But no one was required to leave comments on Facebook, so I took their compliments as genuine and became confident that I had begun the journey to finding the newer, more attractive version of me. It was time, time for me to let the dead parts of myself fall off, just as trees must do each year so that new life can spring forth. I had waited ten winters to prune what had long gone stale, and it felt good to be fresh and new again.
Now that the hair was taken care of it was time for Step Two. Sign up for Match.com. Sure, I had tried online dating in the past (three times, actually), but I had always been hesitant, lacking in confidence, not quite trusting that someone could actually be right for me quite possibly because I hadn’t been sure of who “me” was or what “me” wanted. And before, I’d been younger too. Now I was twenty-five, had a steady job, owned my own condo, lived by myself, and had no reason to question the validity of my existence, other than the fact that I couldn’t attract what I considered to be quality men. Most were either intimidated by my success or thought I was too uptight, and many didn’t like the fact that I didn’t party or go out drinking every weekend. It seemed that every person I ever went out with found something wrong with me. Then again, most of the time, I had found at least as many problems with them as they found with me.
So with all of this negative history behind me, I logged on, and said an earnest prayer that God would finally listen to my pleas and grant me my deepest desire. To find my husband, a man who would love me and want to spend the rest of his life with me. That desire had been in the back of my mind for the past couple of years, but it always seemed so vague and unattainable that I tried not to dwell on it too seriously.
You might expect me to say that the first thing I did after paying to be a member was to start searching for men in my area, but that would be a lie. The truth was I had already searched for weeks, deliberating whether or not I should sign up and try to communicate with the several men I was interested in and risk rejection and disappointment yet again. It took a little convincing from a friend of mine and a brand new set of New Year’s resolutions, but I had made the decision to try again for a fourth time.
If I was being completely honest, there was one man in particular that I wanted to speak to who I had found almost two months earlier when I first thought about trying the online search yet again. He was twenty-nine, grew up in Missouri, loved hiking, riding his bike, camping, fishing, and reading. He worked as a “grip” in the film industry and seemed to have an eclectic taste in art and music while also expressing a profound love of the natural world. In short, he seemed interesting. To sweeten the deal, he was handsomer than any man I had ever dated before.
So instead of going to the “search” option, I went straight to his profile by typing in his username, “bfmedley.” Yes, you’re right (I know, I know). I had memorized it. I sent him a brief email without much in the way of any details so as not to seem too desperate. I clicked “send” while saying a prayer that he would receive it and find my profile so intriguing that he could not resist talking to me. With that, I began casually browsing the pages of other men’s profiles taking note of their photographs, how much they said about themselves and what they said, and whether or not they shared my faith, political beliefs and love of learning. Some were handsome, some intellectual (or at least they claimed to be), and some made a lot of money, but none of them held my interest long enough to allow me to get “bfmedley” out of my mind.
To my surprise and relief, I did not have to wait long to hear a response. Bfmedley was interested in me! He was interested in the girl in the pictures with the short red hair, the girl who taught English to middle-schoolers during the day and attempted to write short stories at night. The girl who enjoyed nature, and family time, and good books and tea. Yes, he was interested in all of those sides of me and he asked me questions about them. We discussed our families, our interests, and even silly anecdotal details about ourselves. But even still, I remained a little guarded, not allowing myself to succumb to the knot in my stomach that was telling me I had just found someone, possibly the one. No, I couldn’t think that way (could I?). I told myself not to get too excited. I had not even met him in person yet.
On the night of our first date, I spent at least an hour straightening and tweaking every hair of my short new doo till it was absolutely perfect. I sprayed my creation with hairspray and doused myself with some of Gucci’s “Envy Me” perfume. I suppose I was convinced that it was this haircut that had suddenly brought about a change in fortune, that maybe I had been too bland or average before for anyone to notice me.
When we met, I projected absolute confidence. I smiled and laughed and we made great conversation. And all the while, I let my fingertips touch the ends of my short strands of hair, playfully exploring this new “me.” Allowing the confidence of the style to course through my veins, fully enjoying every minute of our date as the old Megan melted away and was replaced by a confident, calm, cool and collected young woman who at least appeared to “have it all.”
When I think back to that night I am amazed that I was as relaxed and personable as I was, that I wasn’t nervous or shaky, but that I had really enjoyed myself. I allowed myself to believe that I was all those things which Ben believes me to be—smart, beautiful, kind, and fun. I guess they were there all along, waiting to be released from the weight of hair that had long needed to be cut off so that new pieces of me could grow.
Less than a year later, Ben asked me to marry him in spite of that short hair cut I sported on our first date. Come to find out, he prefers my hair long. I’m glad I didn’t know that at the time. He might never have gotten to see how beautiful I really am.
