I caught my reflection in the window of a train on Friday and had to do a double take. My hair was long and limp, hanging well below my shoulders in broken strands that made my face blur into that of any other tired woman commuting home on the 5:00 PM train.
It made me frantic, to see myself this way, and I walked quickly from the train station to my home, my breath escaping in rushed puffs as I climbed the hill through town. After pushing my keys through the lock and flinging off my jacket, I located my craft scissors and headed to the bathroom. In a moment of total clarity, I started cutting.
Holding a pair or scissors in my hand does not scare me and I stood before the mirror filling the sink with rough, dead hair, coarse like straw and dull as dirt. I wanted my hair asymmetrical and full of imperfections because my life is asymmetrical and I am full of imperfections. I needed it to be attractive, but true, and I wanted it to capture the variety of life that hangs heavy around our necks and makes each morning spark with the electricity of the unknown.
David helped me with the back, his face full of nervous concentration but his hands steady and sure. In the end he agreed that we did a pretty good job and when I look in the mirror I’m happy because I don’t mistake myself for anyone else.