The False Promise of a Bob

A bob says, "I like the shape of my face."

It all starts innocently enough. I’m scrolling through Instagram reels and then, suddenly, there she is: a luminous woman wearing dainty gold jewelry and a thick wool sweater. “Come with me to get a haircut!” the influencer chirps as she films herself walking under a clear blue sky and into a sleek salon with matte black fixtures. Setting her phone’s front-facing camera on the vanity, she uses the stylist’s shears to lop off chunks of her long, flowing hair. She lets out a theatrical gasp—“Oh. My. God.” The stylist takes it from there, shampooing, conditioning, sectioning, and trimming, trimming, trimming until her tresses fall just below her chin. A little blowdrying and shine spray, then poof. There it is. The perfect bob—tousled but not messy, romantic with a gentle curl. Impossibly chic. Striking a series of poses in the mirror, she says in a voiceover, “This is your sign to go short!”

Who, me? I think to myself, twiddling with my own dry, waist-length ends. Yes. Maybe this is my sign to go short.

A bob! Imagine that. A bob says, “I like the shape of my face.” A bob says, “I’m in the business of making decisions.” A bob says, “I schedule an appointment at the salon more than once a year.”

At least, I think that’s what having a bob would say about me. I don’t presume to know the constitutions of other bob havers, many of whom I’m sure do not possess the same hangups that I do. In my teens and early twenties, I was far more adventurous with my hair, flitting between pixie cuts and undercuts. But as I’ve gotten older, I’ve also become less interested in manipulating my appearance as a means of self-expression. Two and a half years ago, I cut my hair into a lob—a shoulder-length haircut, the kind that says nothing. Since then, I’ve kept my hair long. It looks good for a couple of days after being washed, then lays flat all the days thereafter.

And so in spite of myself, I’m thinking that maybe the thing I need is a bob. As someone who grew up flipping through Cosmopolitan and InStyle in the early 2000s, I’m not above believing in the power of a haircut. With a bob, I’d actually get dressed in the morning instead of throwing on the same Hanes sweatshirt and jeans over and over again. With a bob, I’d wear statement earrings and silk scarves. With a bob, I’d be the sort of person who doesn’t look up the menu online before going to a restaurant.

Whenever I find myself pining for a life-changing haircut, I’m reminded of a moment from HBO’s Girls. Struggling with a recurrence of OCD triggered by a looming book deadline, Hannah cuts out a photo of Michelle Williams Carey Mulligan?? from a magazine and tapes it to her bathroom mirror. Then, she hacks at her hair with a pair of kitchen scissors, resulting in a disastrous bowl cut. It’s a familiar scene for anyone who has felt unmoored and, instead of taking control of their life circumstances, sought a shortcut to self-actualization.

So, no. I don’t need a bob. But maybe I should get bangs.