My last period post (well for a month a least)--my hair.

So the postpartum first menstruation week of fun is probably wrapping up—I hope. This has been miserable. So much so that I have an appointment with my OB/GYN early next week just to make sure there aren’t bigger issues going on. I’ve been an absolute basket case, physically uncomfortable, and I probably haven’t been very nice to my husband.

The one thing I always want to do when I get a hardcore period is want to chop off my hair. I’ve never been able to explain it to a man, but my hair actually hurts when I’m on my period. Like every little strand has a tugboat attached, all pulling in different directions. Thankfully, I never follow through—because I really do love my hair.

I have what my family affectionately calls “corn silk” hair. It’s blonde to the point of almost being white, fine, straight, and utterly unruly. When I was a kid, people were amazed that no matter how long my hair was, even the tiniest bit of static electricity would make it stand on end. As a gymnast who lived on trampolines, I was a minor celebrity because of it.

Now of course I’ve had plenty of trims in my life, but only two real haircuts that changed my look. One was here in Tucson, just after we moved, when a genius stylist showed me how—with a little shaping and a Dyson Airwrap—I could actually have something resembling “style.” Not to take away from her skill, but it’s just too much work to get that look daily, and her shaping has pretty much grown out.

The other major haircut came when I worked at Hooters. At least in the early 2010s when I worked there, Hooters was as progressive as a restaurant named after boobs could be. They realized a girl couldn’t easily change her cup size, but she could do her hair to fit the part.

I had it backwards: I had the boobs, but could do nothing with my hair. Not for lack of trying, though—I burned the hell out of it before every shift with a curling iron, then drenched it in enough hairspray to asphyxiate a small bird. On a really good day, it would last about half my shift before giving up and falling flat. Then I’d brush it straight and go back to my natural look.

All that damage eventually caught up with me. After a few months, my hair was so fried that even trying to style it was pointless. A fellow Hooters girl recommended a very gay stylist downtown. I resisted for a while, but sure enough, when I got my period, I hit my breaking point: “That’s it, this is coming off!”

I called him, and his response—delivered in the cutest West Texas accent imaginable—was, “Sure, sugar! I think I can fit you in!”

It was like a scene from a movie. He grabbed my hair like he owned it, grimaced like I’d committed a crime against nature, said "oh noooooooooo" composed himself  and said, “Honey, how do you feel about a bob?”

I asked how short, and he did a little karate-chop motion just below my ears. I was hormonal enough to say yes. But that didn’t stop me from bawling when he took that first long strand off.

He read the room perfectly. Holding up the chopped locks, he showed me the visible damage and explained that if I didn’t cut it off, it would start breaking on its own in ways I wouldn’t be able to control.

With his reassurance, I sat there for the rest of the afternoon, having an amazing time. We talked about his annoying boyfriend, I compared notes on my annoying husband (hint: Bubs was way more annoying), and I walked out with something just shy of a pixie cut—a bob that barely covered my ears.

I couldn’t stop staring at it in the rearview mirror on the way home. I looked like a completely different person. I never imagined I’d have hair that short.

I’d rehearsed this whole speech for Bubs—all about empowerment and creative reinvention and how hair grows back. I was ready for him to need convincing. Instead, he just smiled. “You look amazing, Dani. I really love it.”

Cue my period brain: So… you’ve secretly hated my long hair for eight years? You’ve been lying to me this whole time? What else aren’t you telling me, Craig?!

Poor man.

It’s funny now, but looking back, I think that’s what hormonal chaos does—it turns transformation into confrontation. We want to reinvent ourselves, but we also want to make sure someone notices.

So now, as I sit here with my first postpartum period in full swing and my hair long enough to pull into a messy bun that could qualify as a bird’s nest, I’m fighting the urge to grab scissors—maybe bangs this time? I keep reminding myself: this isn’t about hair. It’s about wanting control in a season when your body is reminding you—loudly—that it runs the show.

But also… a little trim never hurt anyone.