Because When Life Feels Too Heavy… You Cut Sh*t Off

Author: Jessica Nichole

Substack: Brain Dump Before Bedtime 

Why is it that women are known to do something drastic to their hair during highly hormonal or stressful times?

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard it. The second I told someone I was pregnant (which was a lot — I have five kids, people), someone would inevitably say: “Now don’t go dyeing your hair some crazy color.”

Excuse me? Why would I dye my hair just because I’m pregnant?

Two weeks later I’m in the mirror staring at some god-awful red.

Why is it always red? Why do I run to red?

Or right after having a baby — deep in the baby blues — there’s always that one person who says:

“Your hormones are out of whack. Don’t let them convince you to cut your hair. Just buy a gallon of ice cream instead. It’s good for your breast milk.”

Ma’am. Please.

Just because I cry at every donation commercial doesn’t mean I’m going to cut my hair.

SpongeBob transition voice…

Fifteen minutes later: scissors on the bathroom counter and six inches of hair in a sad little pile on the floor.

Okay. Fine. Maybe there is some truth to this hormonal-stress-hair-chopping phenomenon.

So my question today is…

Why did I chop my hair off?

I’m not pregnant.

I didn’t just have a baby.

So why the chop suey?

I’ll tell you why.

Because life today felt like a lot.

Not tragic. Not catastrophic. Just… heavy.

I woke up to the water being shut off because my husband found a leak in “the water thingy” that needed a new oval part (I’m sure that’s wrong — this information hit me pre-coffee).

He said he’d fix it “later this morning.”

Sir.

What about five kids who need showers? Teeth brushed? Hair done? All of whom, by the way, have long, thick, curly hair that drinks water like it’s a sport.

I need coffee. I need a shower. My pre-menopausal self is fighting hot flashes nightly. Water is not optional.

After some very tight-jawed, pre-caffeine negotiation, the water was turned back on.

And thank God — because a few hours later his truck belt broke, which immediately became the new emergency. So yes, the water will be fixed “later this week.”

Now that the water crisis was temporarily handled, it was time for the morning wake-up tour.

I dragged myself from room to room whisper-yelling, “Time to wake up,” while my two-year-old marched behind me chanting, “Eat! Eat!” like a tiny, demanding union leader.

Somehow I got everyone dressed and fed and squeezed in a five-minute shower for myself. No time for under-eye concealer. Looks like Mama’s bringing her emotional baggage in carry-on form today.

And then came THE. MOST. ANNOYING. DRIVE. EVER.

Seriously. I get that it’s Monday, but does the entire population of Earth need to be on Highway 99 at the exact same time?

After dropping off three kids at soccer, I took Mr. Ivory to the gym. Day 2. Yesterday he lasted two full hours in childcare — a personal record after his usual five-minute protest.

Today? Today was not yesterday.

Ivory made sure the entire gym knew he was unhappy.

God bless the daycare workers, though. They could see it written all over my face — I needed this hour. Desperately. My under-eye luggage was screaming for cardio therapy.

Nine minutes into my workout… the call.

Walking back in, I saw the calmest teenage boy gently pacing the tiny room with Ivory in his arms. His little whimpers tugged at my heart. He’s my last baby. Watching him grow up has been harder than I expected. If I’m honest, I’m not fully ready for him to not need me every second.

“Duck,” the front desk lady whispered.

Now, as a mom of four competitive soccer players, my reflex to duck is strong — even with hip dysplasia and arthritis staging their own rebellion.

“Is everything okay?” I whispered back, crouching like a malfunctioning Transformer.

“Yes, I think he’s okay now. We just don’t want him to see you and start crying again.”

“Good call,” I said, as a ring of fire spread from my hips down through my thighs, knees, and calves.

“Can you sneak out?”

Sneak? The only way out was a squat-shuffle.

I exited that childcare room looking like a defective robot low on battery — unseen by Ivory, but absolutely witnessed by every 22-year-old who survives on protein bars and water.

Workout finished. Cranky — no, hangry — toddler collected. Back to soccer pickup.

And because I never learn, I decided to “kill two birds with one stone” (terrible phrase, by the way) and stop at the store on the way home.

Big mistake.

The fighting. The name-calling. The arguing over candy like we’ve never purchased sugar before in our lives.

Excuse me? I know I raised you better than this.

At self-checkout, the cashier was giving us looks as my children debated gummy bears like it was a Supreme Court case.

Remember those hot flashes I mentioned?

Cue the waterfall.

I was sweating and tearing up so aggressively my hair and face looked freshly steamed. Mama was leaking from every possible source.

By the time we got to the car, I stuck my head out the window like a golden retriever on the way to the park.

We got home with exactly three hours to eat, do homework, make dinner, and prepare for evening soccer carpool Olympics.

But of course, we can’t just have a normal busy afternoon.

No.

We have hormonal children confessions.

And don’t get me wrong — I love that my kids feel safe telling me everything. I really do.

But sometimes their “deepest, darkest secrets” are:

“Two years ago I liked this boy…”

Why is everything two years ago? Why does every story start with that?

Anyway.

I realized I had just enough time for another five-minute shower before round two of the day. I ran for it.

Now, whoever designed our bathroom decided a giant mirror directly across from the shower was a great idea. It was not my design choice.

Standing there soaked, I caught my reflection — and noticed the dead ends.

So many dead ends.

With minutes to spare, I grabbed my scissors.

And chopped.

Five inches later, there I was. A brand-new curly bob staring back at me.

Was it even?

Nope.

Did I care?

Also nope.

I walked out, keys in hand.

“It’s time to go!”

My oldest opened her door, stared at me, and smirked.

“Did you cut your hair?”

“Yes.”

“Short?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m stressed and that’s what you do when you’re stressed,” I said, heading toward the door as every child silently assessed the situation.

My youngest daughter gasped.

“Do I have to cut my hair too? I’m stressed too.”

“If you want,” I said. “But not now. We’re late.”

On the way to the car, I glanced in the rearview mirror at my uneven bob and laughed. I really can be dramatic.

Oh… and I forgot to mention.

Aunt Flow is scheduled to arrive tomorrow.

So yes — hormones may, in fact, be involved.

But here’s the thing.

It wasn’t really about the hair.

It was about control.

It was about standing in front of a mirror after a day that felt loud and chaotic and out of my hands… and choosing something. Anything. For myself.

When life feels heavy — when the water’s off, the truck’s broken, the kids are fighting, the gym calls nine minutes into your “me time,” and your body feels like it’s staging its own internal climate change — you look for something you can shift.

Sometimes that shift is five uneven inches of hair on a bathroom floor.

Sometimes it’s saying no.

Sometimes it’s crying in the grocery store.

Sometimes it’s laughing at yourself in the rearview mirror.

We don’t cut our hair because we’re unstable.

We cut our hair because we’re shedding.

Because somewhere deep down we know — if something feels too heavy — we’re allowed to put it down.

Even if it’s just dead ends.

And honestly?

The bob isn’t even that bad.

A little uneven? Sure.

A little dramatic? Absolutely.

But so am I.

June 25th. Cancer. Proud of it.

And if life gets heavy again?

Well.

There’s always more hair to cut.