So... I cut off all my hair

For my senior year of college, all my friends were preparing for the real world: updating their resumes in InDesign with crisp fonts, buying their very first pant suits and big girl shoes, setting up a LinkedIn account and eliminating those beer pong photos from Facebook.

I, on the other hand, grew my hair out -- didn't wash it for a few months -- and got a new tattoo.

It was right around month three of the oily, dredding do that I got a bit of a talking to from my parents, friends and professors about the "real world." I washed my hair, cut out a few snarls, bought my very first brassiere and was ready to take on the world as some sort of an adult.

Well, I am happy to report that I survived that and came to realize that it wasn't actually true. As it turns out, being myself is working out just as well.

So, I like foul language just as much as I did when I discovered it in fourth grade. I like short hair and I like beer. I also know how to write my way out of a paper bag, can take a photo in focus and hit a deadline. I think I can do all of those things hairless and happy and hold down a job.