I gave myself my first major haircut after a bad breakup in college. My hair was two feet long, bright-young-thing blonde and shiny like cooking taffy. After that breakup (that man, that boy, that pain), I wanted to demonstrate that I was a a new person, a woman who had survived. As soon as I cut my beautiful forelock into bangs, I knew that I was cutting away a part of me that had grown wrong after losing my grandmother.
Today, I cut my hair again. A bit less drastic, but I am wiser now. This time, I am not fooled into thinking I have lost anything. This time, I know it was time to cut away a part of me that was growing wrong. Crooked, or inward, perhaps.