Hair is over rated.

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 15^th 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.