I’ve spent the last three weeks pinning hairstyles. Asymmetrical bobs, long layers, bangs, color and tutorials I’ll probably never try. I’ve waged a war with myself over that age-old question: To chop, or not to chop. I dragged Chad into the fray, showing him picture after picture of blown-out coifs and asking, “What do you think about this one? Too short? Bangs or no?” Patient and loving husband that he is, he humored me each time but ultimately gave me the same answer: “Babe, your hair looks great however you wear it. I’m down with whatever.” Code for: “I’m in way over my head here, just pick one already and let’s go have a beer.“ Why do I agonize so much over every hair appointment, like it’s going to be my last? I used to do this in nail salons, too; standing in front of that wall of color with a blank stare for several minutes trying to choose which shade to paint my toes, as if I’d have to live with the decision forever. Tell …