I haven't yet written a post mourning the loss of all of my long hair. The loss of it, despite it being the result of a positive experience and not a negative one as some unfortunately experience, like a disease, was abrupt and not in sync with my personal preparedness for such a change. My hair was my power, like Samson, and had been so for the ten crucial years of young adulthood (15-25). After hiking in Oregon for 32 days (showering 4 or 5 times overall, and no hair-brushing), my hair was matted to my head, and I was left with no visible solutions other than cutting it. I could have cut less, I could have saved more, coulda shoulda woulda. But the fact is, my 70 centimeters in one moment became 10. I notice it mostly when I'm running or dancing, when previously my hair would be my title; wisps of a rainbow of bravery that went before me and led my freedom.
Now I'm left with short hair that fits in a tiny ponytail which I am sometimes fond of. And sometimes it's nice just loose.
Here's a tribute to my old hair.