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As a girl-child, my preferred coiffure back then could best be described as “the longer – the better.” Little did little-I know, that in some years I would eagerly consent to having my beautiful-wonderful-lucious-hair chopped into a messy bob in a groovy salon on Wooster street.

In my pre-tweens, however, I was subjected to braids and ponytails and other ridiculous hairstyles. All because messy hair was bad and if I let my hair down messy hair it would be.

But none the less, here I am ordering breakfast from a waitress whose squint, after giving me a once-over, suggests she and her sleek-ponytail dislike my bedhead. My own desire to rid myself of the undeniably stunning mane of hair came from a deeply rooted yearning to be different. As someone who both paints and writes, I’ve always struggled with the tragedy of “Oh, this is a lovely idea I shall write this novel… no wait, Kundera already did,” and “This brush stroke looks too much like Matisse, fuck.” Hence, after moving to New York and realising that everyone has acquired a lustrous mane of their own like some sort of grow-your-own children’s set, I was convinced I didn’t want to partake in the long-tresses line-up anymore. That, and my somewhat tradition to change my hair every time I moved was really the deal-breaker.
Now came the more elaborate decision of exactly how I wanted to destroy my hair. I was slightly inclined on a replica of Mia Wallace’s edgy bob, but the ultimate goal of bohemian style tugged me toward a more tousled look. And the embodiment of New York bohemia and a great hair to me, was obviously Patti Smith. It was inexhaustibly enjoyable and absolutely liberating to cut my hair. Within an hour, I was presented with an “outgrown bob with bangs.” Waking up every day only to tug at my hair a little and think “yeah, this looks fucking great,” without having to brush it, curl it, spay it is a very neat thing too.
I felt very much among the likes of Jane Birkin and Patti and Florence Welch.
The thing with short hair was the ease of grooming it, or rather not grooming it at all. The casualness of anti-coiffure reflected how I dressed and how I desired to live in general.  I figured a well worn-in, grungy Cobain mess of a head would embody all my philosophies as far as hair could convey any message.
An I-don’t-give-a-fuck look, effortlessness. Cut your hair, be cool, worry less.
– Alice Pylypenko

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