Hair

I think it is your hair that bothers me so much. That keeps me from understanding you. Your long, dark, thick, heavy hair. It gets in your way. You lean over to look at something and hurl it back over your shoulder when it dares to slide, slowly, silk-like into your view. You twist it into temporary knots, the veins in your hands revealing the struggle. Your infrequent use of a hair-tie reveals your swan neck, but the resulting bun, the size of a loaf of sourdough bread, pulls back the skin of your face, and your eyes, already large, grow wider with the strain of undistributed weight.

I don’t understand you for so many reasons, but your relationship with your hair is the most obvious. You should just cut it off. Not all of it, just from the shoulder down. Bangs are all the rage now. A nice fringe around your face and some length in the back. Save the beauty of the dark flow, but lose the inconvenience.

But I know why you don’t cut it.

He likes long hair. He stood by my side at countless weddings, when we were in that a-wedding-every-other-weekend stage of our lives, and asked me why women wear their hair up when they want to look their most beautiful. He never cared for necks.

You wear you hair long for him. You are willing to do those sorts of things for him.

I kept my hair short.