I never thought I’d have short hair. I was brought up convinced that cultivating long and healthy hair was a virtue—a belief I now attribute to my mother Susan’s impressive, still-waist-length-in-her-seventies mane.
In her youth, Susan’s hair was the stuff of legend: that elusive strawberry blonde shade that usually requires an expensive colorist’s help. The kind that naturally goes blonder in the summer and gains rich auburn tones in the winter. To this day it is thick, lush, and literally “rolls and flows all down her breast,” in the manner of a Bob Dylan heroine. Her hair is so inspiring that even my dad has stopped getting his cut since he retired.
Having just about inherited her volume (if sadly not her color), along with her brushing, washing, and braiding techniques and her strict instructions to never start dyeing it—or at least not until it turned gray—it seems I also absorbed the unspoken (literally, she never said this) idea that short hair was for people without the luxury of choice. People with… bad hair?
Then I moved to Paris. And look, there are plenty of women with long(ish) hair here. For several years I was one of them. But over time I realized that many of the most stylish French women I know, all with great hair of various textures, were choosing to wear it shorter. Bobs, lobs, and blunt mid-lengths abound in the city. Rapunzels in ivory Haussmannian apartments? They’re a rarer breed. As I look around the bustling Left Bank cafe I’m writing this in, I can’t pick out a single woman with hair below her shoulders.
So… Pourquoi? My theory is twofold: first, the influence of the whole gamine thing. Parisian women are world leaders when it comes to mixing masculine and feminine codes. From Coco Chanel on, they’ve been proving that looking sexy doesn’t have to mean looking hyper-feminine. Think about it: tailoring, mannish overcoats, relaxed denim, loafers, men’s shirts worn open with a hint of lingerie peeking out, it goes on. Plus, if Saint Laurent’s spring/summer 2025 collection is any indication, businesslike ties will be ornamenting female necks next season.
The second part is a more general commitment to looking put together, but for God’s sake never like you’ve actually tried to. This is where the haircut comes in: get yourself a simple, stylish one that flatters your face specifically. Period.
I discussed this at length with family, friends, random people with great hair I meet at parties, and, of course, my hairdresser. My sister-in-law was the first person to suggest I take the plunge when I finally loosened my thick high pony after a game of tennis this summer, complaining of a weight-induced migraine. “You know, Monica, shorter hair would really suit you.” When I asked my hair guru Fabien Giambona to weigh in he didn’t miss a beat. “I’ve been waiting for this! Now sit still and I will make a cut that looks best when you do absolutely nothing to it.”
He’s right. Once you’ve got a bob, you can leave it to its own devices. I no longer have any use for my hair dryer—not even in the dead of winter. My hair dries as I dress and do my makeup. You don’t need to think as much about your outfit, either: everything (sharp collar, roll-neck, crisp white tee) seems to look more intentional beneath the bluntness of the cut.
Apparently, the bob was this year’s key hair trend. “Well, well, if it isn’t another Angele square,” a male friend said, not disapprovingly, in the days after my chop. Angele square isn’t a park in Paris, it’s the now infamous hairstyle of a cute blonde popstar few outside the Francophone world have heard of (she is worshipped here): Angele’s chic bob apparently launched a thousand chops.
I don’t follow her choices as closely as the locals, but perhaps her sorcery has had some indirect effect. Mostly though, I put my decision down to waking up one morning in September to crisper air, and realizing that I categorically could not be bothered.
I have two children under four. My daughter started school in September and the idea of detangling and arranging both of our mops before 8 a.m. each day was simply more than I could face. Plus, she went first, and her bob was so chic, so chill, so life-changing that I just couldn’t resist. So, with all respect to Angele, Mia (aged three and a half) was my chief influence.
I placed myself in Fab’s capable, tattooed hands and held my breath. He said he had known this was my destiny and he was right. Short hair was hidden somewhere inside of me all along, and while I don’t regret my years of long and ethereal tresses, my hair now feels much more aligned with my personality. Plus, I’ve already saved hundreds of euros on expensive conditioners.
If you’re stuck in a hair rut, struggling with untameable tangles, dreading your lengthy coloring sessions, or living in fear of nursery lice outbreaks, I have just one question for you. To borrow the title of the 1991 Bill Murray classic: What About Bob?
Vogue
