Long before medicine sought my mind and time, words stood by me and held me in a sweet warm embrace. And here again, they remind me that we are far from done on this journey.
Maybe someday I'll love again.
The first time I willingly cut my hair was 7 years ago. On a warm Sunday afternoon after family lunch, I slipped out of the door after a quick goodbye to my parents and drove myself off to my friend's home. Only she knew what plans I had that day and it was better left at that. The ride there was filled with as much anticipation as nervousness. I had doubts for sure, but I was fully committed to this and had zero plans of turning around. At my friend's home we wasted little time on pleasantries and got right down to business. A hair band held my thick, long, silky relaxed hair in a pony tail. 'Hey, this is the last chance, are you sure about this?', she asked me, taking a step back to allow me that chance to pick up my stuff and leave. 'I'm ready', I said, taking one last long look at the hair I had nurtured, pampered and adored for the past 12 years before the scissors appeared. It took all of five minutes and there I sat with the newly detached ponytail in my hands and the remnants of relaxed hair atop the new growth staring back at me through the hand-held mirror. 'Not bad', I thought to myself as she proceeded to shape the hair until it was mostly all natural, only allowing myself to feel a momentary pang of loss. There! It was done! I had finally done this after months of contemplation and planning.