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I have wanted to cut my hair for at least four years, but never had the guts to do it. I’d had short hair when I was little and had occasionally been mistaken for a boy (granted this was by other stupid little girls who had no clue what they were talking about) and I was afraid that, while it had been adorable on me in my younger years, it would just not suit my new face.

Finally, a week and a half ago, I took the plunge. “I want it short,” I announced to my hairdresser. I pointed to my jawline. “Up to here.”

“Are you ready?” she asked, scissors poised, lock of my wet hair in her hands.

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I replied. Snip. Snip.

Thirty minutes later, I was a new me. And I liked it. No longer would I have long, thick hair hanging down the back of my neck in the sweltering summer; no longer would my shirts get soaking wet around the collar after I showered and my hair was dripping. I could shake my head back and forth and my hair would bounce around like a headful of springs. This was the freer, low-maintenance Elise.

A week and a half later, I’m getting used to the difference. I wish my hair would stay back in ponytails, and it’s a lot easier to have bad hair days now, but I’m really looking forward to the winter when I can pull a fuzzy little knit cap over my head so that only the ends of my curls are sticking out from under the edge.