The night before I cut my hair, I grieved it like a ghost. I’d spent three years growing it long and it was the color of honey and straw. I was afraid I wouldn’t recognize myself.
“You don’t have to cut it, you know,” a friend said, “if it makes you feel so sad.” But I knew that I did. Sometimes we mourn the loss of something but still need to let it go.
A month later, I look in the mirror each morning and think I can’t believe I waited that long.
I’m feeling that way about a lot of things these days. Everything, almost. Goodbyes and closing doors, ends of chapters and lights turned off, open your fist and let it go. I’m swimming in the deepest ocean and the sandbar is farther than it looked. I’m treading water and wondering what it feels like to drown.