It’s the most wonderful time of the year, really?
Settle down, Andy Williams. This time of year is straight-up dumpster-fire panic. The only marshmallows getting toasted in my life are the ones lobbed at me by credit card companies reminding me of my “seasonal cheer” financial obligations. Free time is spent dealing with gifts, pretending to be festive when I’m actually dead inside, and doing Christmas crafts like a deranged Pinterest junkie.
When my world starts caving in, my brain splits into two equally unhelpful Tracys:
Right-Shoulder Tracy is adorable and dangerous in her own way. She pats my cheek and coos, “Aw, muffin, you’re overwhelmed! What you really need is to eat every sugary pile of holiday deliciousness within a 10-foot radius. That plate of cookies meant for Sally down the street? Sally doesn’t want those calories. You’d be helping her. Honestly, it’d be rude not to. Bon appétit!”
Then there’s Left-Shoulder Tracy—and she is straight up feral.
She’s been doing tequila shots since sunrise, breaks into the DJ booth, grabs the mic, and screams, “YOU KNOW WHAT WOULD FIX EVERYTHING? CHOPPING OFF YOUR HAIR!”
And the whole club goes wild.
“YAAAAAAS GURL! YOU GON’ BE HAWT! WERK IT!
And I believe her lies. Because I’m in a stress spiral and chopping off my hair feels like the only thing I can control right now while everyone wants my time, my energy, my presence at events I don’t want to attend. My inbox is shrieking, my to-do list is smothering me, and the only thing that feels remotely manageable is…well…my hair. “Yes. This. This will fix my entire life.”
I make an appointment with my hair dresser because—even though Left-Shoulder Tracy is doing the Macarena with the entire Clemson rugby team—she is not foolish enough to think this is something I can tackle with my worn-out Fiskars.
I explain—very calmly, like someone who is absolutely not one peppermint-mocha away from snapping—exactly how I want my new, totally sane persona to look: a sassy bob with nice bangs to hide the giant stress vein sending SOS signals in Morse code across my forehead. My stylist gives me a look that says, “We ride at dawn. Which is apparently… now. Buckle up.”
She starts snipping away, and I begin feeling lighter. Inches of my scraggly tresses drift to the floor like tiny sad ghosts of anxieties I’m pretending to purge.
The phoenix is rising from the embers of the old, burned-out version of me… or at least that’s what I’m telling myself while ignoring the growing pile of hair that looks suspiciously like the un-vacuumed corners of my life.
Now it’s time for the pièce de résistance—the curtain of bangs.
Snip. Snippity-snip.
A little more.
Even it out.
A little more.
And then… finally… it’s over.
She spins my chair toward the mirror, and there—staring back at me—is Lord Farquaad from Shrek.
Not a distant cousin. Not “Farquaad-adjacent.”
No.
It is HIM.
Short. Medieval. Absolutely ready to evict fairytale creatures from a swamp.
Remember how I was doing all of this to feel in control of something? Something in me snapped. Not like a gentle pop.
A stress-loaded mousetrap going off in a closet full of wrapping paper and unwashed laundry.
I burst into a full-on hysterical laughter/crying episode—the kind where your face can’t decide which emotion is steering the ship, so it just commits to all of them at once. I vaguely remember sounds coming out of me: a snort? a wail? possibly a dolphin scream? Unclear.
Things went dark after that.
I know I paid her.
I know I even gave her a tip—because Right-Shoulder Tracy would never allow me to skip tipping for a service, even if that service resulted in me looking like a medieval villain whose castle smells faintly of boiled mutton and condescension.
Somewhere between the sob-laughing and the credit card swipe, my dignity slid off the counter and crawled under a rack of overpriced hair products —which I also purchase to help “style” my new look. Because nothing says, “I’ve lost control of my life,” like dropping $42 on a tiny bottle of oil that promises to “tame flyaways” but can’t fix an identity crisis.
My family, bless their supportive little hearts, had thoughts about my new look.
They immediately launched into a heated debate over which iconic figure I most resembled:
• Lord Farquaad (rude but fair),
• The Dutch Boy paint kid (a bold, historically inaccurate choice), or
• Jim Carrey in Dumb and Dumber (specifically the bowl-cut era—never the vibe you want assigned to your face).
I’m not sure who won the comparison contest—but the loser was clearly me, clutching my $42 serum and looking like I am wearing a rugby helmet that stupid Left Shoulder Tracy drank a beer out of earlier that day.
But you know what? It’s fine. Because we all lose our minds a little at times of high stress. Some people overspend, some people abuse their livers, and some people accidentally transform themselves into a side character from Shrek.
We cope.
We recover.
We grow out the bangs.
It’s the circle of life.
Until then… I’ll be rebuilding my confidence one Sally’s cookie at a time. It’s called growth, people. The vibe which hopefully my hair will quickly pick up on.
Happy Holidays—may your bangs be long, your shipping be fast, and your sanity hang on by at least one bobby pin and a delicious gingerbread man.
Tagline:
Thankfully this meltdown was a few years ago and Tracy Winslow’s hair has returned to “normal”. On an unrelated note, Left-Shoulder-Tracy was recently overheard saying, “One more dog won’t hurt anybody! It will run with you while you train for the Daufuskie Marathon that I just signed you up for. Here’s a plate of cookies I found at your neighbor’s house. You’re going to need the calories since you haven’t worked out in years.”