The Price of "I Do"

 Lately, I have caught myself thinking that I might be happy and unmarried in years to come, and the thought does not scare me at all, it never has. I am not saying this to make a statement or to align with any ideology. It is not about feminism or rebellion. It is simply a quiet conclusion my years of observation have been drawing me toward.

I have watched women closely for a long time. Not from a place of judgment, but from curiosity. I have paid attention to what changes in their lives, what disappears, and what survives beneath the surface. My recent visit to the salon only made these observations clearer.

As I sat there, waiting and watching, I noticed something familiar. There is a particular spark in women’s eyes when they sit in a salon chair. It shows up regardless of age, status, or background. Married or unmarried. Young or older. That spark feels almost childlike. And it led me to a realization.

All women are girls.

Not in age. Not in maturity. But in essence.

We often assume that marriage completes a woman. That once she is married, she has passed a certain phase of excitement and self expression. Society expects her to calm down, to comport herself, to become quieter and more measured. She is told, sometimes gently and sometimes firmly, that her priorities must shift.

And many women listen.

Slowly, comfort is sacrificed for responsibility. A woman’s days become filled with thoughts of what her family will eat, what needs to be fixed, what must be planned. Her needs move down the list. The mirror stops being a place of reflection and becomes a tool used only when necessary. Not because she no longer cares, but because caring now flows outward.

At some point, many women begin to feel that their lives are no longer entirely their own. Who is really looking at them anyway? Who are they trying to impress? Their thoughts are consumed by service and duty. By showing up for everyone else.

But then she walks into a salon.

In that space, something shifts.

In the salon, pretending feels unnecessary. Masks fall away without effort. Women talk freely. They laugh loudly. They catch up on one another’s lives. They debate whether a hairstyle suits them or if a shade of foundation sits well on their skin. For a brief moment, responsibility loosens its grip.

And something important happens.

She looks at herself.

Not quickly. Not functionally. But intentionally.

She observes her face. She notices her beauty. She remembers that she exists beyond the roles she plays. The girl resurfaces. The one who enjoys being seen. The one who wants to look good, not for anyone in particular, but simply because she is alive.

That feeling, however, rarely lasts.

Soon, she leaves the salon and returns to the weight of routine. The exhaustion resumes. The responsibilities wait patiently. The spark dims again, not because it is gone, but because it has been tucked away.

That is why salons have always meant more than hair and beauty for many women. They are spaces of temporary freedom. Small escapes where fragments of selfhood are reclaimed before being set aside again.

Watching this pattern over and over has taught me something.

Girlhood does not disappear. It waits.

It waits for permission. It waits for space. It waits for moments where a woman is allowed to be more than what she provides.

And perhaps that is why the idea of being happy, whole, and unmarried does not frighten me one bit. Because I have seen how easily women are asked to shrink. How quickly joy becomes negotiable. How often selfhood is postponed.

This is not a rejection of marriage. It is an acknowledgment of self. A recognition that happiness should not require disappearance.

And that, more than anything, is what my recent visit to the salon taught me.