I bet I’ve spent a quarter of my life trying to control the unruly, frizzy mop that is my hair. I’ve tried mousses. And gels. And serums. And creams. And unholy mousse-gel-serum-cream mixes of my own making. I’ve tried finger twists. And sleeping with my hair wet. And when all else fails, I clip it back with a barrette. So when O’s beauty director, Val Monroe, asked if I would be up for letting a stylist—hers, as it happens—do whatever he wanted with my hair, my first reaction was, Hell no! I’ve probably spent another quarter of my life running from bad haircuts. But then I thought, What if I let go? What if I just do it? And I said yes. Yes, I would.

At the Frédéric Fekkai salon, stylist Enrique Ouvrard told me that to create a shape more flattering to my face, he was going to take a few inches off the top layers. Uh-oh. Everyone knows a hairstylist’s “few inches” can be more like six. As if reading my mind, Enrique scrunched up my hair to show me; it looked better already. Still, I watched anxiously as he started to cut. I wanted to say, “Please don’t go too short!”—but I’d promised Val I’d keep my mouth shut. With every snip, little tendrils, exactly the length he told me, slid down my smock. Bless his Parisian heart. And then I wondered if I shouldn’t be going even shorter.

I left the salon feeling like I was walking out of a shampoo commercial. I was the person I used to dream of—the girl with flippy hair. The next morning, post-shower, there was no struggle to manage my curls. No frustrating frizz. With minimal effort, my hair looked its best ever. “You finally found your haircut!” a friend said admiringly. And I’m happy to admit, c’est vrai.

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