The Haircut

I walked behind you today as we exited the room and my heart got caught in my throat. My lungs pulled tightly inside my chest and I had to mentally will the tears away. Normal people don’t react to haircuts like that, do they?

But we do.

Because what they see is honey blonde hair, hanging lose, longer down your neck.

What they see is silky waves that you occasionally tuck behind your ears.

What they see is floppy locks falling through strong fingers, when you run your hands through the cascade of hair creeping into your eyes.

What they don’t see is that every inch of that hair is one more inch since she’s been gone.

They don’t see the hair that fell like tears on your bathroom floor as you shed it, a snake in skin he no longer recognizes or wants; marking the moment between before her and after her.

Where they see a haircut, a tiny change, you see the end of everything - a new beginning you didn’t ask for or want in a million years.

The buzzed head told them something has changed. But it told you that everything has changed and there are no words adequate to express that.

No way to help them see that the lost hair was nothing to the loss of the wife, mother, sister, friend, aunt, cousin, neighbor - companion - making her glacial year-long exit before your eyes.

You’ve been told that Jesus is your homeboy, but you’ve never met him, so you aren’t sure. You aren’t Jewish enough for Shiva; Is there such thing as a wake for the dying but not yet dead?

No one tells you how you should grieve, so you control the one thing left in your power; the only thing you get to choose that slips through your fingers.

So today, looking at your long hair, I see more than meets the eye.

I see your courage to keep living and your committment to keep loving and raising your kids; I see your heartache and your love.

And I hope your hair keeps growing, because it means you are still here, and even though it hurts - I know she wants that for you, too.