It was very cliché.
My heart smashed into a million little pieces, I walked into the salon and told my stylist, "I'm done. We're cutting it off." I wanted to be done with this time. I wanted to feel shorn.
She looked at it dry first to see where the line was. Then wet, she cut it about an inch down from that and blew it dry. I frowned at myself in the mirror, seeing only that last reddish inch on the bottom.
But then she chopped it. She coarse cut into the bottom inch to maintain as much length as possible, and when she was done, my hair was one color. Well, no; my hair was rich, purple-y brown and white and various other shades of beautiful.
It was natural. It was all mine.
It wasn't even *that* short.
And 1 year, 3 months, and 15 days after the last time I dyed my hair one solid color to cover my grays, I was free.