It’s been unseasonably cool this summer, unlike three years ago when I was 9 months pregnant in the hottest July in any sort of recent history. No, God forbid that it be slightly temperate let alone unseasonably cool while I’m gestating. TOO MUCH TO ASK. Anyway, it’s been chilly. Chilly enough that I grabbed a sweater this morning to layer over my sleeveless dress. I guess I’ve had this sweater tucked away, unworn, for over a year because I found hairs. Long hairs. My hairs. My old life.
And immediately I got all introspective and shit.
I had cut my hair, my waist-length hair, a few weeks after John said he was leaving the marriage. Walking into the salon, watching the hair fall
falling to the floor.
It was a moment of defiance and freedom. Shedding the long, dark golden hair was a easily one of the bravest things I had ever done. It sounds so silly when I look back on at, that a haircut would be considered brave. But for me, right then, it was. I knew that the marriage couldn’t be salvaged. I knew that my life socially, financially, emotionally felt like it was set in a tailspin. Everything was uncertain. There wasn’t a thing in my life that I felt I had control of. Except for my hair.
I walked out of the salon feeling lighter. I know it sounds ridiculous, but my soul felt lighter. Like this burden, this stress that I associated with the weight of my hair was instantly lifted. I felt strong. And while I could see that the coming days and months would be difficult, I could do it. That I was more than capable to achieve whatever I desired.
So I put my sweater on this morning, pulling a long hair from the sleeve.
I remembered what it felt like to be brave.