Hair story the last, probably

Since I was 14 years old, I had long hair, often nearly to my waist. I loved it. I was vain about it. It was lush and wavy and deep chestnut brown. I thought it was my best feature. In my late 50s and 60s, it turned grey, then silver. I liked that, too. I loved being a woman of a certain age with long silver hair.
When I was diagnosed with cancer in 2014, I had to have my hair cut. It was one of the hardest things I have ever done.
Cancer breaks you. How you heal at the broken places is different for everyone. In my case, every single activity, every single thing I was and did, changed utterly. However, I thought I would grow my hair back. I knew it might not work, but I thought it was worth a try. So I did.
What grew back, however, was not my old, cherished hair. It was thin, and brittle, and didn’t wave or curl much once it was past my shoulders. It wouldn’t stay pinned up, and it hurt when I tried.
Last week, I accepted that I was no longer that woman with long hair. The wonderful hairdresser who cut my hair before chemo cut it today. Now it’s fluffy and I think it will curl more. It is, as Howl said of Sophie, the color of starlight.
I am not the person I was. But here I am.

About girasoleazzurra

GraceAnne Andreassi DeCandido. 70+. Feminist. Flower child. Works with words. Thinks with music. My belief system involves food and family. Wrote and spoke and published about libraries, librarians, writing, editing, and reading. Now retired. Putting some of that writing here.
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