Some people have a signature look. I, however, have never been one of them. Throughout my most formative years, adults would constantly tell me to not to touch my long, brown ringlets, which only spurred a burning desire to mess with them. Where friends of mine carefully maintain their hair with cautious, occasional trims, I’ve relished in the rebellion of taking a less prudent approach. I’ve had blond hair, black hair, many iterations of ombré highlights, and more rounds of bangs than I can count on one hand. Some of my impulses have been less successful than others (see: helmet bangs and Crayola yellow hair), but I’ve always found that the combined elements of spontaneity and risk add to the fun—or at least they did, until I got engaged last year.

My fiancé and I decided to plan the wedding ourselves, which is probably why it should come as a surprise to no one that after just a few short months of planning, I felt the familiar urge bubbling up to sprint to the nearest salon and go wild. I was in dire need of some stress relief, and for me, a quick hair change has always been a reliable way to get it.

Truth be told, I had only ever imagined myself getting married in a courthouse wedding, wearing a white pantsuit. With a venue booked and that scenario now out of the picture, I was in over my head. What did turning myself into a “real” bride look like? I knew there was no singular way to fulfill that role, but it felt like an uncomfortably performative one nonetheless.

Every bridal decision felt like a thinly veiled barometer of who I was as a person—my tastes, my style, my character. I just wanted to do it right, and it was exhausting. I was supposed to look like a “princess” but maintain my feminist identity; deal with the stress of event planning but maintain a chill composure at all times. I thought I would be prepared to greet the seriously messed-up pressures with two emphatic middle fingers, but it was…a lot. I felt like I was just a person who wanted to get married to my partner, not a bride.

Being a bride meant being subjected to unsolicited commentary on nearly every aspect of my life. When an acquaintance asked how “sweating for the wedding” was coming along after spotting me mid-bagel one morning, I was sure my angry pulse was visibly throbbing through my forehead. And when people I didn’t know particularly well suddenly felt comfortable asking personal questions about my plans for changing my last name, I had to force myself to hold back my tongue.

My thoroughly shot nerves made a cathartic and—the operative word here—dramatic hair change sound all the more appealing. Feeling a smidge lighter at the prospect of a transformation I could control, I happily alternated between saving photos of wedding tablescapes and snaps of Jenna Dewan’s piecey, chin-length cut on Instagram. I was already halfway through booking an appointment to get my bob-length chop when five words I’d never really considered (at least, where my hair is concerned) stopped me in my tracks: Is this a bad idea?

My limited knowledge of wedding prep told me that women usually grew out their hair ahead of the big day, not the other way around. I racked my brain trying to think of any iconic bride who’d walked down the aisle with a blunt bob and came up empty. Long, flowing hair or cascading updos seemed like the de facto move. Would I be ruining most of my hairstyle options if I chopped it all off?

Never mind that it had already been gently pointed out to me that short hair can be really versatile, my momentum was quashed. Operating on my last nerve, I didn’t feel like I had it in me to add another potential opening for unwanted commentary onto my plate. Ultimately, I decided this wasn’t the time to follow my risky hair impulses. I put down the phone and made a contract with myself to keep growing out my hair.

What followed was nine long months spent cursing the lion’s mane growing on top of my head. I’d stare longingly at women with short haircuts as they passed me by on the sidewalk. When masses of damp hair clung to my back in muggy subway tunnels, I imagined having the sweet, ventilated freedom of a bob. And each time I had the distinct privilege of fishing gigantic knots of long hair out of the clogged shower drain, I silently counted the number of days I had left living under the rule of a thick mop—probably not the sort of countdown I should’ve been tracking with excitement just days ahead of the wedding.

Eventually our wedding day finally rolled around, and I didn’t spend it pining for different hair or worrying about my scoring on some sort of unofficial bridal report card. The high of being surrounded by everyone we loved in one room was something everyone should get to experience at least once.

My talented glam team made me feel beautiful, and I informed my husband (who, by the way, had patiently listened to me vent about my hair for months like the saint that he is) that I want to be buried in the pearl hairpiece I wore down the aisle. But even though the rational part of my brain gets that my bridal hair lands below the very bottom of the totem pole in terms of the most important things to happen on our wedding day, I can’t help it: I look back and wish that I had just gone for the damn bob all those months ago.

In the end, the best parts of our day were the laughing, dancing, being surrounded by loved ones, and getting married bits. It seems almost unbelievable that I let that pressure and anxiety to “not mess up” get so far under my skin. All of those overwhelmingly wonderful aspects would have been there just the same, regardless of how many bagels I ate, what I chose to do about my last name, or even whether I said “I do” sporting the typical princess-length hair or the world’s most unfortunate, triangular-shaped bob.

A whole 72 hours after my wedding, I was back in the salon. A sigh of relief I didn’t even realize I’d been holding back came out when I plopped down into the familiar arms of the hairstylist’s chair. Once my thick mane was finally just a heap on the ground, it occurred to me that I really had been onto something with my carefree approach to hair all these years. I just lost sight of it for a little while.

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