A friend recently asked me what my new year’s resolutions were, and for a moment I was honestly stumped. Sure, I could say, “I’m going to eat less cheese” or “watch less TV”, but for once I knew better than to openly commit myself to something everyone knows I won’t actually commit to. Despite my best efforts at avoiding delis and the refrigerated sections of supermarkets, somehow fetta and mozzarella and ricotta and all manner of cheeses would still find their way into my lunch (probably because I keep ordering goat’s cheese sandwiches). And although I no longer watch daytime TV, five-hour night time binges tend to blast my box viewing out of the realm of sensible moderation and into an unhealthy zone. But, really, I can’t help that Gossip Girl is so damn addictive. Honestly.

So you see, I have had to find a much more manageable NY’s resolution to uphold: chopping my hair off every two months (i.e. paying someone else to chop my hair off every two months). (i.e. Getting Mum to cough up money to pay someone else to chop my hair off every two months). After initial tribulations (particularly during the initial cutting process when it looked like I’d alternately submitted my hair to the ravages of a lawnmower or gone faux punk in a very pathetic way), I love my new hair. It doesn’t take two days and two nights to dry, I can spike it with wads of gel or leave it unjoojed and fuzzy, it’s a billion times (exaggeration added) easier to manage and is pleasantly cool for this year’s thus far non-existent summer, and you. can. actually. see. my. earrings. now. OMFG.

In conclusion: although I miss my old hairstyle’s flickability and scarf-like properties, and forgetting for a moment I have three trillion hair ties and clips (no exaggeration) to dispense with now, short hair rocks. It rocks your socks off. (And while we’re on that subject, I also make a new year’s resolution not to buy any more Holeproof socks. All my pairs have holes in them).