After fifty years of skirmishing with my hair, we come to terms; it will behave if I don’t unduly impose my will on its free spirit. My mane accepts a moderate haircut, one length, slightly above my shoulders; this allows the freedom to fly unhindered in dreams and reveals my face in the daylight. We have tried longer tresses, catering to my desire to have a braid meandering down my back. While there was no hirsute rebellion about being plaited each night, for both my hair and I fretted about being entangled in a dream state, there came the afternoon I clearly heard, “Cut me.”
This time, instead of returning to the cropped, boyish styles that I usually wear after a period of long hair, I try shoulder length—most days worn with two side combs winging my hair back from my face (almost a 1940s look) or unceremoniously gathered together with a rubber band when my neck is hot. Today, I realize that I can still draw my hair up into a tight, twisted bun—for those days at work when I want to subtly announce, "Don’t mess with me."
Now, I find a certain ease in dreams with a brush of hair crooning just over my shoulders; anchored but free.
night breeze
through the wisteria
the wind chimes
This time, instead of returning to the cropped, boyish styles that I usually wear after a period of long hair, I try shoulder length—most days worn with two side combs winging my hair back from my face (almost a 1940s look) or unceremoniously gathered together with a rubber band when my neck is hot. Today, I realize that I can still draw my hair up into a tight, twisted bun—for those days at work when I want to subtly announce, "Don’t mess with me."
Now, I find a certain ease in dreams with a brush of hair crooning just over my shoulders; anchored but free.
night breeze
through the wisteria
the wind chimes
by Beverly A. Tift
New Haven, Connecticut
