I walked through the door with somewhat recklass abandon. My hair was still ponied up and full of post run sweat. I pulled out the ponytail holder and clips and let the thick bundle of hair unravel onto my shoulders.
When my whole life seems to be in constant flux, my hair has remained the same. I should probably be happy with this thought but somewhere between my door and the salon chair I generated the urge for more than the usual trim and thin. I wasn’t, however, sure what I wanted.
It was a little blunt and morbid the way I said it. “Tom liked my hair long, but he isn’t around anymore,” I said, “so that doesn’t matter much anymore. Does it?” I could see that it caught my hair dresser, Bonnie, off guard. She let the conditioner soak and walked away to see off her last customer.
When Bonnie came back, she had an idea. We decided that the worst thing that could happen was that I would hate it. If that was the case, my hair would grow. I watched as she picked up the razor blade device and began her work.