Ah, February—the brooding, temperamental middle child of winter. It stands as nature’s blunt reminder that the cold isn’t over, your New Year’s resolutions are likely in shambles, and Valentine’s Day may not live up to one’s expectations. If January is the month when we valiantly attempt to get our act together, February is when we lose the script entirely, drop the props, and realize we were never on stage to begin with.

This year, February has hit me particularly hard—like a runaway snow plow skidding straight into my will to function. The February blues isn’t just an expression: it feels like an official diagnosis. I am exhausted, unmotivated, and caught in a vicious cycle of Netflix marathons, iPad games, and enough questionable snack choices to make my pantry look like an accomplice in a crime. Clearly, something had to give.

I needed a solution—something fresh, exciting, revolutionary…. but also, low-effort. Now I know the importance of being active, getting outside and enjoying what little sunshine we have, but I wanted a quick and easy fix. The question was, “How to put a spring in my step without breaking a sweat or spilling my coffee?”

The answer came in the most unexpected way—while mindlessly scrolling Facebook. Amid the endless cat memes, ads for miracle wrinkle creams, and reels of sexy middle-aged men doing a 10-second dance, one headline practically leapt off the screen: “New Hairstyles for Women Over 70.”

It was like the universe had nudged me with its frosty, sarcastic elbow. Over 70? The model in the article was drop-dead gorgeous with a sleek bob, impeccable makeup, and not a wrinkle in sight. She looked less like someone eligible for senior discounts and more like she’d been Photoshopped straight out of a luxury skincare commercial for forty-year-olds. Misleading? Absolutely. But her pixie cut was undeniably chic—a striking contrast from the hairstyle I’d been clinging to for the past twenty-odd years.

“Why not?” I thought. “It’s just hair. If it looks terrible, it’ll grow back…eventually.”

The next morning, I called my local salon. “Hi, this is Lynda. I need a… reinvention. Can you fit me in today?”

“We have an opening at 3 p.m.,” said the receptionist. Her tone was so perky it made me want to take a nap. “Are you looking for a trim or something a bit more dramatic?”

“Oh, dramatic,” I replied, already feeling the bold new me taking shape. “Think ‘whole new vibe.”

The stage was set, and I was ready to leave my February funk—and possibly a good chunk of my hair—behind.

By 2:45, I was sitting in the salon waiting area, gripping a picture of my future self like it was a winning lottery ticket. My stylist, Jessica, greeted me with a smile so warm it could have melted a snowbank.

“So, what are we doing today?” she asked, leading me to her chair.

I handed her the photo. “This. I want this.”

Jessica studied the picture, then studied me. “We can definitely do a version of this,” she said diplomatically.

“A version?” I asked, suspiciously.

“Well, your hair texture is a bit different, and we’ll want to enhance your natural beauty while keeping it low-maintenance. Trust me, you’ll love it.”

God Bless Jessica. She is so tactful, so kind.

Snip, snip, snip. With every lock of hair hitting the floor, my confidence wavered. What if I looked ridiculous? What if I ended up resembling a lopsided pineapple?

“It’s only hair,” I told myself, clinging to this mantra like a life raft. “It’ll grow back”.

Forty-five minutes later, I emerged from Jessica’s chair with a layered pixie cut and caramel highlights that caught the light like shards of sunshine. “Wow,” I said, tilting my head to admire the angles. “I look… sassy.”

“You look fabulous,” Jessica confirmed, and honestly, in that moment, I believed her. 

I floated out of the salon, feeling ten years younger and at least fifty percent sassier. As I drove home, I wondered if Chuck—the most unobservant man in existence—would notice my transformation. 

“Chuck,” I announced dramatically as I walked through the door, “do you notice anything different about me?” 

Now, Chuck, like all men, realized this was a tricky question. Instinctively,  he knew his answer should be somewhat flattering. He squinted at me for a minute, the wheels of recognition visibly creaking, then he smiled and said, “Did you lose weight? Your face looks thinner.” 

Honest to God, Chuck. Way to pop my sassy bubble. 

Still, as I caught my reflection in the mirror, I couldn’t help but smile. Let him think it’s weight loss—that’s not a bad thing, plus that was a very safe answer on his part. I know the truth: caramel highlights and a pixie cut just might be the ultimate February antidote. Next year? Maybe I’ll tackle those wrinkles. Or maybe I’ll just scroll Facebook for another epiphany.

 

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