Saturday, July 9, 2016

Hair-brained

I used to have my hair grown out to about mid-back, maybe a bit longer (hard to tell since it was always behind me). My wife's was even longer. Naturally, we both complained about the upkeep and inconvenience. But I liked hers long and she liked mine long, so we compromised on a cease-fire.

When she died, I cut mine all off, with the idea of donating it to Locks of Love. However, I still have my ponytail sitting on the shelf, like some creepy serial killer's trophy. I grew the darn thing, but I still feel like it was hers. I'm not giving it to a stranger. I don't know what I'm going to do with it, really. It's just six or seven years of dead cells, wrapped in an elastic band. Boy, this is sounding more and more serial-killerish the more I describe it. But I can't get rid of it, not yet.


At least hair doesn't spoil. I'm growing my hair out again, now. This time for me (but still kinda for her a little bit). I'd like to think that, by the time my hair is as long as it used to be, I'll decide what to do with my old ponytail. I wish I'd thought to cut a lock of her hair off when she died. That definitely wouldn't be creepy at all, right? In Victorian society, they fetishized hair, especially of dead loved ones, so there's a precedent. Nothing Victorians did was weird or creepy at all. I guess, what I'm trying to say is, sorry chemo patients, maybe next ponytail.

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