New Trim

            I went to the hair salon three days before I left New York.  It was the first time I had gotten my hair cut in a year.  The process was the same as I remember it: I was shampooed, snipped at for a while, blown dry and then, when the barber ran out of topics of conversation, his receptionist cut the silence by asking me if I have a boyfriend yet.

I do not.

I always get emotional at the barber shop.  I like to imagine that each of my hairs is a tiny timeline of me: when this bit of hair grew out of me, I was graduating high school.  When I grew the segment just below that, I was doing something boring like brewing tea.  When I grew the bit of hair just there on the tip, at the very bottom of that one split end, the first girl I loved still loved me too.

I suppose it is a good thing to cut your hair.  The split end does you no good anymore, no reason to keep it there.  But it’s a sad thing when they sweep up after it's over and throw those little bits of you in the trash.  Shouldn’t the people cleaning know that you metabolized cereal to make that hair?  Shouldn’t they know that you grew it while doing important things, like brewing tea?  Why don’t they sweep it a little more lovingly?  And why aren’t we given time to say goodbye to our hair before they throw it all away?