There are two movies that come to mind when I think of long hair. The first one is The Color Purple. Young Celie was just wed to the evil Mister and had to pick out his daughter’s matted hair because it hadn’t been combed since his first wife died. Mister told Celie not to cut the girls tangled mop, then slapped his bride for refusing to quiet the screaming child.

The second is Waiting to Exhale. Bernie (Angela Bassett) had just found out that her husband was leaving her for a white woman. After a week-long stint in bed, she walked into her friend’s salon and demanded the shortest haircut imaginable. “Are you crazy?” the friend yelled.

“If you don’t do it, I’ll cut it my damn self!” Bernadette grabbed the scissors and chopped off a plug of two-foot long hair.

Those movies scenes don’t appear to have anything in common, but for me, they clarified the relationship between hair and self-esteem. I can’t think of too many women who feel good about themselves while sporting a jacked up hairstyle. And I am no exception. When my hair isn’t to my liking, I don’t feel quite like myself. I’m a little grumpier in the mornings. Outfits don’t seem to look right.

The two women in those movies had an even deeper connection to hair. They allowed their characters to be defined by someone else, specifically men. The Exhale scene was hard for me to watch the first time because I was dating someone who believed that short hair was a practically a sin. That clown would check my hair every time I came from the salon to see if my stylist had trimmed it any.

When I decided to cut my hair seven years ago, my hairstylist’s reaction was similar to the one in the movie. “Are you sure?” she asked. After I answered the question several more times, she opened the drawer at her station and pulled out the scissors.

“Wait! You can’t cut your hair,” a customer cried. “Lisa, wait. Let me talk to her for a minute.” I can’t remember the customer’s face. I was too busy trying not to lose my nerve.

“No waiting,” I said. “Cut.”

“You’ll be sorry,” he said.

“I doubt it,” I replied. “Cut.”

The customer stared in disbelief as Lisa cut my hair down to two inches. By the time she pulled out the clippers to taper the hair at the nape of my neck, he decided that he couldn’t take anymore. He declared me a fool and left the salon.

When Lisa turned the styling chair around to show me my reflection that day, there were no regrets. I was introduced to the real me.

I’ve toyed with growing my hair out from time to time, but the result was always the same. I would cut it before it grew to my ears. This past year, however, my hair made it to my chin. Lisa styled it into smooth bob. It reminded me of Dorothy Hamill.

There were things about longer hair that I had forgotten. For one, it sheds. A lot. I had to clean the sink out every morning after combing my hair. And the bathroom floor was a mess. I later remembered that my college roommate and I had to sweep our dorm room every week because our hair shed so much.

Another thing that I had forgotten was how ridiculous long hair looks when it needs professional attention. Last week, my hair appointment was two weeks overdue. I felt like a wolf. No matter how much I brushed my hair or tried to tie it down with a scarf, it would look puffy. I felt as if I had stuck my hand on that static electricity ball at the Magic House.

The final straw was last Wednesday. A coworker came into my office to discuss a project. “Are you growing your hair out?” he asked. I nodded weakly. “It looks nice.”

I know that he was being kind, but I didn’t want compliments on something that I didn’t even like. As soon as he walked out of my office, I picked up the phone and made a hair appointment.

I walked into the salon Saturday morning. Lisa was a few minutes late. “How short do you want it?” she asked as she pulled out her supplies. “I want to lose at least half of this,” I said.

A few hours later, Lisa turned her chair around to show me my reflection. Two-thirds of my hair was on the floor, “Welcome back,” I said.

The past few days have been a lot easier. I haven’t had to clean the sink or sweep the bathroom floor. And I am still getting compliments.

“You cut your hair!” a co-worker said. “It’s awesome.”

“Thanks” I said.

“I know you were growing your hair out, but it really didn’t seem like you,” she said. “I like this a lot better.”

“Me, too,” I said.

Cinderella. Snow White. Rapunzel. The Princess with the pea. These women managed to beat the odds and bagged the perfect husband in the process.

Or as far as I know, they did. When I was a kid, I read and reread their popular sagas of romance and rescue. But the stories didn’t give too much detail past the rescue stage. The rest of their lives was summed up in a single phrase: “and they all lived happily ever after.”

As a modern day princess with her own prince charming, I am working on my happily ever after. Mike and I met four years ago at a family barbecue; his aunt is a friend of my mom’s. He is a sweet, patient man who was willing to woo a woman whose past searches for a prince left her jaded. We’ve been living together for the past year and a half, and we have been blessed with a daughter.

Did the princesses truly have a happily ever after? Dealing with the everyday challenges of a relationship is much harder than it seems in that simple phrase crafted by the brothers Grimm. Mike and I have had several instances that I call growing experiences; these are the times when we have to find a way to merge our expectations with actualities. Here are just a few examples of what I mean.

What’s that on the floor?
I am a neat freak, and Mike is not. It annoys me to no end. There was a period of time when I found dirty socks all over the place. I fussed. I stomped. The socks disappeared and were replaced with dirty dishes and empty take-out cups. My prince is patient with my annoyance as he relocates and redefines his clutter in various parts of our home.

How would have Rapunzel handled this? Would the disorder be lost in her long locks, or would the witch who imprisoned the princess make a comeback as a clutter specialist? She would use her magic wand to clean house.

Are we alone?
I work days, and Mike works nights. Toss an active toddler into those hectic schedules, and couple time is nearly extinct. We are still struggling for a solution. I’ve lost count of the times that I’ve fallen asleep while he was talking or mumbled my apologies as he tried to slip over to my side of the bed.

What did Snow White do about this? Did her prince keep a mental clipboard that kept track of her “I’m too tireds” or “I have a headaches?” (By the way, I have never used that as an excuse.) Or did taking care of seven dwarfs provide valuable insights into time management? Perhaps focusing on one relationship is a breeze after keeping house for seven men.

Where’s my hero?
A male friend of mine once said that every man sends a “representative” out on dates during the first few months of dating. It take at least four to six months, he says, for the real person to show up.

If that is the case, did the fairy tale ladies really know who they were marrying? Those chicks fell head over heels at first sight. The longest premarital relationship was Cinderella’s, I think. At least she took a few turns with him on the dance floor before he put out an A.P.B for her feet. Saving the day after the first or second meeting sets a pretty high bar; I wonder if the men could continue to meet expectations.

Mike’s representative made a strong showing with flowers and love notes for about a year. A string of gift-giving mishaps have created a dry spell. Backordered items, lost greeting cards, and calendar mix-ups are just a few examples of the romantic boo-boos I have seen lately.

About a month ago, the main pipe in the house clogged, and smelly water poured into the basement. Mike rented a giant contraption from the local hardware store and spent the day flushing the line. After eight hours of banging and cussing, he emerged from the basement stinky, tired, and victorious. I kissed my prince as he headed to the shower. I offered him a backrub, but he was too tired to accept it. Romance may be hit or miss, but I definitely had a hero.

As Mike snored heavily that night, I thought again about the princesses and their fairy tales. I’ll never know if they really had a happily ever after, but I do know they had an amazing journey trying to get there. And the journey is half the fun.

If you have been checking the dates, it may appear that I have been slacking on my blogging. I wrote an entry a couple of weeks ago about an incident at work, but I removed it after some of my colleagues found out that I have a blog. A blog is a great creative outlet and all, but it is no substitute for a paycheck.

I am so not a morning person. In some cereal commercial, a woman turns her water hose on the paperboy and closes the elevator doors on a co-worker because she is not sociable until mid-afternoon. I understand her position completely.

I’m not sure when my inability to get out of bed developed. My mother has always said that it was difficult to wake me. I believe her exact words were, “Damn, you and your brother are like some crazy people in the morning.” And she is no Ms. Sunshine herself, especially if she hasn’t had a cup of coffee. So perhaps my condition is genetic.

My affairs with sunrise have been short-lived. I took a 7:30 a.m. aerobics class in college until I overslept one day and realized how much nicer it was to stay in bed. And for a few weeks in 1999, I woke up every morning at 5:30 to work out at the gym. One day, I forgot my change of clothes and had to go to work in sweats. I decided that my mental health and my fashion sense were much better served by me catching the extra Zs.

Despite my forays and failures into early rising, I have remained curious. There is a happiness to morning people that I do not understand. By the time they get to work, they are all smiles. They converse in the elevator while sipping mocha lattes. They walk into the office and immediately get to work. I need a big glass of water and 15 minutes of silence before I am able to speak to anyone.

My curiosity and the desire to be a bit more effective during the day fueled my New Year’s resolution to wake up early. The first week was a complete bust. I faithfully set the alarm for 6 a.m. every night, but I slept through the buzzer each time.

A friend suggested that I take it slow. She told me to try 6:45 for a couple of while and then move my awakening time back 15 minutes each week until I hit my goal.

My success rate has been a mixed bag, so I’ve decided to take this opportunity to examine my progress. This also helps me to fulfill another one of my other resolutions. I believe that it’s been just about two weeks since my last blog entry.

Monday, 6:45 a.m.
I barely have the will to rise. After arguing with myself about how much longer I should stay in bed, I realize that I’ve wasted 15 minutes. I force myself out of bed and turn on the TV. Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood is on PBS. I’m not sure what year this episode was filmed, but I’m certain that I was Elyse’s age when it was.

I get dressed, and then I fix a peanut-butter sandwich for breakfast. I go to get my daughter, who has been giggling in her crib for the past half hour. It takes forever, it seems, to comb her hair, but finally by 8:00, we are ready to go.

Tuesday, 7:15 a.m.
I hit a second-day set-back. As I jump out of bed, I hear Mister Rogers singing about grandparents. A few minutes later, the puppets in his make-believe town start to plan an opera.

I somehow find the time to make another peanut butter sandwich. Elyse and I leave the house at 8:15, just as Cookie Monster is agonizing over eating the letter-of-the-day cookie. When I get to work at 8:45, I find that I don’t snarl at the receptionist when she says hello.

Wednesday, 6:35 a.m.
I wake up 10 minutes before the alarm goes off, so I pull out the yoga mat and do a few stretches. The grogginess starts to clear, and I am in a pleasant mood when I tune into Mister Rogers at 7:30. By this point, he is a welcome addition to my morning routine. He focus is still grandparents, and on this day, he is sharing photos of his family. Grandfather and Grandmother Rogers look a little stuffy. His mother’s parents, Bee-bop and Nana, seem much more interesting.

As I step onto the elevator at work, I return the good-morning greetings that I receive from the other passengers instead of groaning as I usually would. By 9:00, I am surprised that I have completed several of the smaller items on my to-do list.

Thursday, 6:30 a.m.
I’m on a roll now. I’m dressed and smiling by 7:15. The puppets in Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood are looking for a composer to help with their grandparents opera.

An hour later, I’m sitting at a stoplight on my way to work. A teenager in a red Chevy Cavalier slams into my rear-end. She didn’t me hard enough to do any damage to my car, but the impact was hard enough to give me a headache.

My good mood was long gone by the time I got to work at 8:30. It took two Advils and an offsite assignment to get me back into the swing of things.

Friday, 6:45 a.m.
I am supposed to go to breakfast with some colleagues, and this late start may ruin that. It’s interesting to note that five days ago I would not have thought of 6:45 as a late start.

I left the house at 7:15, so I didn’t get to see Mister Rogers and the puppets perform the grandparents opera. Traffic seals my fate. I arrive downtown at 8:15, just as everyone is leaving the diner. Determined to have a good day, I order my breakfast to go.

I doubt that I will become a uber-chipper morning person, but now I better appreciate what a few extra minutes in the morning can do. I don’t feel as harried by the time I get to work, and I can also take advantage of the quiet time in the office before the phones start ringing at 9:00. It’s also nice to have a bit to eat, even if it is only a peanut-butter sandwich.

So, we see how long the affair lasts this time. I’m definitely trying to beat my two-week record.

The year 2005 is a done deal, and it’s time to focus on the year ahead. As I have done in years past, I picked up a pen to half-heartedly scribble down my goals for 2006.

I’ve always thought of New Year’s resolutions as a seasonal tradition, like kissing someone under the mistletoe around Christmas or eating black-eyed peas on New Year’s Day. And like those other customs, my resolutions have faded with the end of the holiday season.

My list of unfulfilled goals is probably twenty times as long as the number of years that I’ve been on this planet. There have been financial goals that would have made me a millionaire by now, fitness goals that would have given me a physique to rival any professional body builder’s, and career goals that would have made me a high-profile corporate dynamo. What were my resolutions for 2005? Beats me. And I can’t find the old envelope that I used in 2004 to write them down. Or perhaps that was the year that I resolved not to resolve anything.
I considered going that route again. If I am going to be so half-ass about the whole thing, then why bother?

But then my pastor posed a question during his Sunday morning sermon that made me rethink my position. “Will 2006 be another year or a new year?”

If this is just another year, then no resolutions are necessary. I can go on as if the calendar still says 2005. I’ll make no effort to change my life in any way, all the while complaining about things that I don’t like.

Or I can accept the onset of 2006 for what it is – a symbol for a new start. I’ve got another 365 days to shake things up a bit.

After looking at it that way, I decided to take another shot at making resolutions. My life is good, but there is always room for a little improvement.

So, here goes. I am sharing my 2006 resolutions for a couple of reasons. If I publish my them, those who know me will hold me accountable. Plus, this blog is a much better place to store my goals than on the back of an old envelope.

Diva’s 2006 Resolutions

• Wake up every weekday at 6 a.m. by February 1. Most days, it’s a struggle for me to get up by 7:30. This is problem if you have to be at work by 8:30. And, I’ve often heard the saying that the early bird gets the worm. I’d like to see if it is true.
• Develop and maintain a reasonable workout schedule. Before Elyse was born, I made it to the gym from time to time. Nowadays, putting Elyse in her snowsuit is about all of the workout I get. Don’t get me wrong. It’s a challenge to hold onto a one-year-old for a couple of minutes, but it is a far cry from a legitimate workout routine.
• Post a new entry to my blog every two weeks. I’ve been a little sparse with my entries since I started this space. Writing’s a good outlet for me, and it seems that I have plenty to subjects to cover.

That’s it. I hope you weren’t expecting a two-page list. I know the new year is an open door for change and all, but I have to take it one year at a time.

Happy New Year!