Growing one's hair out is a state of mind. For the last three years I've been growing my hair out from a scalp-close pixie, waiting like a fool for the ship called Long Luxuriant Mane to come in, hoping against the odds. I have fine thin hair, the kind ads on tv ask about in voice-overs that are always melancholy: Do you have fine thin hair?
Would bobby pins make it bearable? Handband? No. What about a rhinestone clip? Finally, this morning, I said fuck it.
The wan, mouse-brown inches fell to the floor and with them the months. That hair must hold the evidence the pain clinic, the ice packs, the medicines, and the life that I once imagined would be mine. It feels good to be rid of it. I'm not a pixie anymore, I'll never be a Godiva; what's real right now is, as the gurus say, "being present, being vulnerable." So I've got a bob that bares the neck.