When something traumatic happens, my first instinct is always "Welp, time to do crazy shit to my hair." This is pretty tame, considering that in high school, I used to dye it dark colors before I started going red and get a substantial amount chopped off. This time around, all it took was a few inches off and some highlights to make me feel like a million bucks.
And, fun fact? This is how I looked every summer when I was a kid. We went to the pool literally every day and between the sun and pool chemicals, I was the blondest I have ever been.
I got my hair cut literally an hour before my dad's funeral. I have a feeling that he would've said something along the lines of, "You look just like my little girl, but now you're all grown up."