Cutting away

It’s been eight months.

Your hair is so pretty.

My hair keeps falling.

Long hair suits you.

Strands break when I run my fingers through

Please don’t cut your hair.

Autumn in my head.

There is a wedding in the family.

Was there a lot of hairfall? I ask the girl who washed my hair. ” There was. Still is.” she pauses, combing out my wet hair. I can feel strands breaking. Again.

So, how much shall we cut?

All the damaged parts.

But it’s grown so long! 

All the damaged parts.

It grows really quickly.

I know. It’ll be fine by the time the wedding comes around.

It’s quite heavy, your hair. Thick. Weighs it down.

I know, but I don’t want it thinned.

I don’t understand how N mixes math with intuition. We talk, and she continues to pull handfuls of hair, and snip. Over and over again. I don’t understand how my hair will end up looking symmetrical at the end, but I don’t need to, since I fundamentally trust her.

By the time my hair has been dried into falling the right way, I’m already feeling better. This is what the right length feels like. Light. My hair feels surprisingly thicker, and stronger. It isn’t straggly or brittle anymore. I run my hands through it. Nothing breaks. I exhale.

Much better, I smile. It’s all good again.

I don’t look at the parts of my chopped up hair on the floor. For now, feeling an absence is a good thing. For now, I can run my hands through my hair without being afraid. For now, in leaving parts of me behind, it feels like something has been returned.





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