For years I’ve been cursing cancer for making me go through the perils of chemo and losing my long, thick locks. I’ve lamented the fact (often) that as it grew back it’s never been quite the same. Sure, I’ve tried at times to grow it long again, but the strands are now fine and completely uncooperative.
So, for the last 15 years or so, I’ve been wearing my hair in varying styles of short, fancying the pixie on most occasions.
To shake things up a bit, I’ve spent the last three months growing my hair out as a favor to my sweetie who has never seen it long. Eager to make him smile, I began the arduous task of attempting to let the hair flow where it may. Don’t get me wrong, I was excited about the change, too. At least at first…
But as it began to grow longer, I found myself feeling heavy inside. For years I’ve been holding on to the memory of my long hair as if it were my identity. Yet nearly half of my life has been sporting a much shorter ‘do. I’ve spent so much time complaining about the fact my hair no longer looks good long that I’ve rarely celebrated the fact it looks pretty darn cute short!
And you know what? It’s been in the years of the short hair that I’ve really become the person that I am today. And I kinda like that gal. I’ve become a stronger version of myself. I’ve graduated college, opened businesses, lived in numerous locales across the country, navigated tricky relationships and finally ended up the happy mama of a miracle of a little boy.
There are definitely times I miss the coif of my childhood, but I’ve come to realize over these past three months that I’m not a child anymore.
This is the hair that I choose to rock as I continue to grow as a partner, a mother, a person.
I can keep growing but the hair doesn’t have to anymore.