It always grows back.

Those who email me regularly are probably aware of the battle I've had with my hair for the past several months. I've been short-haired most of my life, so this accidental journey into long hair over the last year has been delightful and educational. And somewhere along the line, I grew quite attached to it.

This surprised me. I was always the one who changed my hairstyle with every visit to the salon, the one who said, "Do whatever you want" to my stylist (I miss you, Carmen -- I sort of want to go red again). It always grows back.

But then it was really long. And suddenly I realized "growing back" meant a year of bad hair days rather than a couple of months of putting it under a scarf.

I went into salons in Germany, Poland, Ireland, and the Netherlands, but I always backed out. For the first time in my life, hair was a big deal.

And it's not that I had exceptionally pretty long hair. I didn't. But it felt sexy, so who cares what it actually looked like?

You know me. When I go, I go all out. And I left the salon today missing about 10 inches of hair.

It was the most miserable haircut of my life. It didn't help that before she started, the stylist said, "Are you sure?" Not exciting. Scary.

Which is why it had to be done. Hair. Useless vanity. It's embarrassing to admit I actually cared to see it go.

It was intense. It's still touch and go. But I'm slowly remembering that this is fun, too.

Two hours later, I'm here at a hostel in Utrecht, killing time before what needs to be a very early bedtime. I have to be at the airport by about 5:30 tomorrow morning to catch my flight to Faro, Portugal, and there is no way to make those connections from Den Dungen, so I had to get close to a train station where trains leave early and where I could find a place to stay. Utrecht it is, and I'm due on board at 4:07.