I have always kept my hair short,

but now it’s not.

Over the last several months, I’ve let it grow, out of negligence, out of curiosity.

It seemed fitting, in a time so unlike the last seven years, a new season of time, of observation, of choosing presence and putting down roots after one of transience, of overwork and emotional burying and deconstruction.

The last time my hair was my preferred length, level with my jaw and layered up the back, was almost a year ago. The person it embodied was in exile from herself, trying to figure out how to come home.

Now my hair touches my shoulders. It’s all split ends. It swings in a satisfying way if I turn my head quickly, and it gets all over everything. A part of me is afraid to cut it, because then in the mirror, I will look like her again.

I wonder if I am ready to reclaim that image from where I stand today. From where I am going.

+++

A/N: I’d like to start posting regularly on my little writing blog again. It took a while to figure out what I want this corner of the internet to be, as I’ve long grown out of certain phases of thought and social media engagement I was following in college when this blog took shape. I think smaller moments will be the way to go for me, moving forward.

I recently read “You Are Your Own” by Jamie Lee Finch. Working through new epiphanies this week. It’s been a trip.

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