I wonder if hair is sort of like the rings of cut trees. Does it hold the memories of its days? Can it retain the residue of warm, cozy diner breakfasts and awkward sleepovers, of disappointments and poor choices, of hurt feelings and unrequited desires?
Every time I grow my hair long it’s to try to prove to a man I’m feminine enough to be desirable. Love me! Love me! Love me! My desire for him overwhelms and obsesses me, but his desire for me is fleeting at best. Why do I even think that my hair will make a difference. I’m always me either way.
Every time I cut my hair off it’s because I’m done trying, because I’m just tired of fighting the fight, with my hair and for a man. Those other memories need to just go away.
This is for me.
I was going to fix you.
Give you so much of me that it would patch your broken heart.
You’d be so grateful, you would fall in love with me.
And that would fix me.
But you’re still broken.
I’m still alone.
And you don’t even notice I’m gone.
Maybe I’m the only one who was broken after all.