Some people mark life transitions with tattoos. I have commitment issues – the only tattoos you’ll ever see on me are the ones that fade away. To mark my life transitions I’m more likely to go for something long lasting but a little less permanent. Like a haircut. A very short haircut. Delivered through my own hands. With a one-inch blade.
Shaving your head when you’re twenty-seven – the age when I first took a cheap beard trimmer to my curly brown locks – feels brave and reckless. Doing the same when fifty-two is eight weeks away leans a little closer to menopausal madness. But I craved it. I talked about it for the past week and when friends said “No!” I still threatened to do it.
And by 5:43 this afternoon my hair was in a pile at my feet.
Things change. Hair grows. When I left my apartment on August 15th for teacher training and then followed those two incredible weeks with my journey home, I changed. I moved closer to my authentic self. And I needed to mark that change somehow – make it tangible. Go figure.