hair today, gone tommorrow

I sweat profusely when I watch someone cut my hair.

Blonde locks fall to the floor with my femininity. They always keep cutting, and keep cutting, and keep cutting until I'm ready to grab the scissors from the hairdresser's hand and yell "stop!"

I got my hair cut today.

After trying to cut my own split ends my hair was uneven and in desperate need of help. The winter air had gotten to it and my once healthy locks had become brittle broomstick straw.

He said he wouldn't cut it much shorter, just add some layers, some flow, and a clean finish. Sixty dollars later I felt like half my hair was gone. I thanked the man, smiled, and left without leaving a tip.

Doesn't it seem that the one day you start to like your hair you decide to get it cut?

I once read a story about an old woman with long beautiful hair who asked a barber for a trim. As a man he couldn't see what the hair meant to her and chopped it all off. He thought he was doing her a favor by relieving her of the weight. She then spent the night vomiting and died the next day.

This is how I've often felt with my hair.

We all hold onto things that we think are a part of our identity. They're only fragments of who we are but we grasp onto them for a sense of knowing ourselves.

And so the blonde locks fell to the floor.

My hair feels lighter...but it will take some getting used to...I feel as if I've been wearing a mask and part of it has been torn away. I feel exposed.

I feel depressed by the fact that I've put so much thought and meaning into my hair.