Redemption

When my grandfather died a decade ago, I cut off most of my hair. Sitting on the bedroom floor, crying but calm, I plaited and cut off two 20-inch braids that had taken my whole young adulthood to grow. It was a way to honor the impact of his loss—the first loss that really knocked me flat. It was a tangible way to split After from Before. Not that I thought of those words at the time. In the moment, it just felt necessary to DO something. As it turns out, cutting hair in mourning is an impulse that's certainly not unique to me.

Afterward, my hair evolved into an edgy kind of pixie cut, then eventually grew out again to its default look: natural waves down to the center of my back. That's how it has remained.

Until a month ago, when I found out that my pregnancy—my new and fragile hope after so much time TTC—was about to end. Then I cut my hair again. This time there was no ceremony, no thread of love and thankfulness woven through the grief, as there had been with my grandfather. There was just me, wild-eyed with sharp scissors. I hacked so impatiently that some handfuls of hair I grabbed were much too thick to cut. They ripped and tangled, leaving crazy tendrils behind.

It was only a decade between these two events, but a decade with enough letting go of dreams that I now felt desolate. What was left? In that moment, looking forward, it was hard to see purpose ahead. I was a thousand years old. A medusa, a crone carrying a dead baby in her womb. It was only right that my outside should match the inside.

Then my eyes caught and held their own reflection in the mirror. That was enough. I looked like an animal with its leg caught in a trap, trying to chew its way loose. How could I add to this injury? I let the scissors fall.

But by now, hair filled the sink. I fought to keep from throwing up as I gathered golden handfuls of it into the trash. Then I wrapped my head in a scarf and was too ashamed to uncover the damage for days.

Finally, I unwrapped and washed it, brushing out the last handful of loose strands. I let the snaky tendrils dry. Then I looked in the mirror, afraid, and was amazed by what I saw: lots of hair still falling past my shoulders, plus a new, soft cloud of waves around my face.

It was beautiful.

Freed from their former weight, the sides had more volume and curl. My hair was so thick that, even with literally half of it gone, there was still plenty of it left. You know that saying about how struggles "build character"? My hair has plenty of character now.

When I look in the mirror, I still relive that awful day. I'm also able to laugh—believe it or not—at the absurdity of hacking half my hair off in an effort to look ugly, and then somehow looking better afterward. I have failed at THIS TOO.

Most importantly, when I look in the mirror now, I relive that moment when I let the scissors fall. It’s a constant reminder to be gentle, toward myself and toward anyone else who is in pain.