Haircut

I’d spent months on crutches, and even more months hobbling around on a cane after breaking off a piece of cartilage in my kneecap. Even though I can walk on my own now, I recently decided two things about myself: one, that I’m no longer the invincible 32-year old I once was, and two: that I wanted to cut off all my hair—both of which had everything and nothing to do with one another.

            I showed the picture to my hairstylist: Halle Berry in an edgy pixie ‘do, with strands of hair spiking out in every different direction. “I want to look like her,” I said.

            My hairstylist hesitated. “Are you sure? It’s really…short.”

            I insisted. She tied my hair in three ponytails—one in the back and two on the side—and in three quick snips, the last six months of the hair I'd been wearing fell to the floor.

           As I sat very still in the chair, I watched in the mirror as handfuls of hair rained down all around, the ends of the curls looped like cat tails. I’d been sick of my hair for so long, sagging and drooping with half-assed curls. I'd even began slicking it into a ponytail, embarrassed that my dull hair would reveal the vulnerable truth of how I really felt about myself. 
            Meticulously, my stylist cut, snipped and razed. “Is this length short enough?” she asked.

            “No. Shorter,” I said.

            She cut, snipped, razed some more. “How ‘bout now?”

            “No—shorter.”

            She cut, snipped, razed some more; she cut and cut, until there was hardly anything left at all.