I'm dating myself here, but that's okay. I don't think I'm fooling anyone into thinking I'm still in my forties. (Or fifties - lets be real)
This is a picture from high school. The days when centre parts and hair down to your waist was the ideal. I could tuck mine into the waistband of my bell-bottom corduroy pants, it was that long.
In those days I used to have nightmares about my mom coming into my room while I slept and cutting my hair. Sometimes they were so real I would wake up in the morning, heart pounding, terrified and run my hands through my hair just to make sure.
I thought I was past that obsession with my mane. But the other night I had exactly the same dream. My hairdresser had chopped my hair and styled it into a spiky mess. Now, my hair isn't waist-band tuckable, but it's still longer. However the difference was I didn't wake up terrified but with a sense of, oh well. It will grow.
I've always liked long hair on my heroines. My very first heroine, Sheryl, also had a long swath of hair. But I'm working on a story now where my heroine has short, spiky hair. I tried to imagine her with long flowing locks, but this funky, spunky girl kept showing up. So I let her have her hair short.
This book won't be out for awhile.