There is a specific flavour of grief where you don’t cry so much as book appointments. You’re not feral enough to hack at your own hair with kitchen scissors—that would be gauche. No. You are composed. Civilised. You open your phone, thumbs trembling slightly, and you book the hairdresser.
This feels responsible. Adult. Almost brave.
It is not.
Grief loves outsourcing. It adores a neutral third party with good lighting and a blow-dry menu. It convinces you that if you sit in a swivel chair under fluorescent lights, something decisive will happen. That you will emerge lighter, sharper, renewed. Possibly French.
This is the first lie.
Because when grief sends you to the hairdresser, it is not about split ends. It is about control. About handing over your sadness and saying, “Can you do something with this?” It’s about the hope that a stranger with scissors will cut away the before and leave you with an after that makes sense.
You arrive early. You take your coat off too quickly. You sit down and stare at yourself in the mirror like you’re about to confess to a crime. The stylist asks, kindly, “So… what are we thinking today?”
And grief, which has been waiting patiently, leans forward and says: “I just need a change”.
Shorter. Blunter. Different. You say things like “I want it to feel fresh” or the most dangerous phrase of all: “I trust you.”
What you actually mean is: I cannot fix my life, so please rearrange my hair.
The problem is that hairdressers are not grief counsellors. They are skilled professionals, yes, but they cannot cut away loss, or shock, or the strange emptiness that follows bad news. They can offer layers. Texture. A fringe if you insist. But they cannot make this better in the way you’re hoping.
And here’s the inconvenient truth no one tells you while you’re wearing a cape and clutching a coffee: this haircut will not change your life. It will change your hair. That’s it. Your grief will still come home with you, sit on the sofa, and ask what you’ve done.
There will be a brief high, of course. There always is. You’ll feel powerful as the hair falls. Reborn. You’ll think, Yes. This is me now. You’ll take a mirror selfie you don’t post. The stylist will say it suits you. They always do.
Then time will pass. The grief will settle into something heavier, quieter. And you will realise that while your life is still unresolved, your hair now has a very specific personality that requires styling, commitment, and emotional stability you do not currently possess.
On sadness, salons, and resisting the urge to make permanent changes during temporary emotional freefall.
You will wait for it to grow. And wait. And wait some more. Hair grows back slowly, almost mockingly, as if to say: You were in a rush. I was not.
This is why, if you are grieving or stressed or standing at the edge of some internal collapse, I gently suggest you do not book the appointment yet. Step away from the booking app. Close the tab. The hairdresser is not your path to salvation. They are not a reset button. They are just very good with scissors.
If the urge strikes, pause. Give it a week. Two. Tell a friend you’re thinking of “doing something drastic” and watch their face. Friends know. Friends remember the last “transformational” haircut. Friends will ask questions like “Is this about the hair, or… everything else?”
Listen to that question.
Because timing matters. Intent matters. Haircuts made in emotional freefall often age badly—photographically and spiritually.
This is not an argument against haircuts forever. You can cut your hair. Absolutely. Just not when the impulse feels frantic, urgent, or loaded with meaning it cannot possibly carry. Not when you’re hoping to walk out as a new woman with the same unresolved pain neatly blow-dried.
Wait until the desire feels calm. Considered. Boring, even. When you want the haircut because you want the haircut—not because you want to survive.
Grief doesn’t need you to be unrecognisable. It doesn’t need you to prove resilience via a blunt bob. Sometimes the most radical thing you can do is keep your hair exactly as it is and let time do its slow, irritating, ultimately better work.
So cancel the appointment. Or at least postpone it. Go home. Text someone. Lie down dramatically. Feel what you’re feeling without trying to edit it.
Your hair will still be there when you’re ready.
And when you finally do sit in that chair—steady, intentional, unhurried—you’ll know the difference.
For more content please follow @CherishYourselfUK on Instagram.
THE
SCISSORS
OF
SALVATION
Burn, Baby, Burn
You’re not spiralling — you’re glowing. How scented candles turn existential dread into a curated moment of calm.
From Guilty Secret to Wellness Essential
Female pleasure has long been treated as optional. Vibrators disagree — firmly, efficiently, and without needing emotional reassurance.
The Things I Carry
A guided tour of the small objects that help me stay soft, sane and upright — even on days when I’d rather crawl back into bed and start again tomorrow.
The Story Behind Cherish Yourself
This space was created in honour of my nana, shaped by grief and heartbreak, and guided by the belief that self-care isn’t indulgent — it’s essential.
You Are Not Alone: UK Crisis Support at a Glance
If you’re feeling heartbroken or overwhelmed confidential help is available right now. Here are some UK resources that might help you.
All opinions and observations are written reflections that are personal and subjective, not factual claims or advice. If you are struggling with your mental health, please seek support from a doctor or qualified health professional.
©CherishYourself 2026
