I've been growing my hair out for awhile now, but, somehow, it still feels new. Today, I'm wearing a shirt with a low back, and the swing of hair against skin surprised me. I've had long hair most of my life, so cutting it all off after college was something of a bold move. I felt no remorse; I didn't cry; I didn't keep a locket of the hair. I was ... free. Unrestricted. Exposed (but in a good way). After a few years of (let's face it) butch hair, I didn't like it anymore. I missed my hair, I missed me. So I began the torturous experience of growing it out, and now it rests just below my shoulders, the perfect ponytail length, long enough to fall over my eyes, long enough to hide behind, or not.
There are days now when I miss the time when I wasn't me -- when I could feel the shape of my skull in my hands, when I was as blunt as my hair. I had no disguise then.
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