Women, when they finally emerge from unhappy marriages, sometimes cut off their hair as a gesture, a conscious or unconscious rebellion, liberation, or rejection of a masculine notion of female beauty.
Of course, if said women identify immoderately with their rather beautiful, waist-length hair, they may express this rite of passage by proxy, hacking off the tresses of the eldest daughter, instead.
I was not happy, not one little bit, but self-preserving Good Sense told me not to oppose a woman with such a zealous light in her eyes and sharp scissors in hand, so off the hair came. And I spent the next few years being consistently mistaken for a boy, the inevitable fate of a girl with short hair, whose body won't even consider developing until at least the age of 15.
So. Here we are. Girlboy in the snow. Making snowmen. As you do. Hopelessly under-dressed, as always.
The Holden in the background, with the roofracks, is probably Robbie's. I had one exactly like it about 15 years later, only with extractors and fats. I loved that car, and celebrated my Inner Hoon with gusto, until it was pinched one tragic night, thrashed, trashed, and abandoned in three feet of mud outside Shepparton, sans wheels. I calmed down a bit after that.
And the cardigan I'm wearing was knitted by my mother when she was a child, for her mother, who wore it always. I lost it a few times, and it spent a couple of years in the oily boot of a defunct Jaguar, but came home to me eventually, and I covered the oil stains with crochet patches. It's still my Old Friendly, to this day.