Who Am I Without My Hair?

He told me that he loved my hair.

How it felt against his cheek, lingering fragrance left on his shoulder, proof of my abandon. How it made a soft, fuzzy frame around my peek-a-boo face. He loved what I loved about myself and this was both strange and familiar.

Fascinated, I wanted more of him. I pondered how I could deepen his response to me. With knowledge of my power, I lost my inhibitions and dove in. What happens when I do this, what happens when I do that. Long hair, big hair, don’t care. His fetish, my indulgence.

He noticed everything about me, which made me aware and deliberate about my movements. With him, walking and talking was foreplay more than function. My senses were heightened, as I tilted my head to kiss him, gazed wide eyed and hung precariously on his every word; I never missed an opportunity to dazzle him with softness.

He told me that he loved my hair. Never cut it, he said. A restriction coated with adoration.

I behaved as if there was a camera on me at all times, because I knew he was watching. Nuzzling my face in his beard as he buried his face in my hair. I prepared it each day, as a sacrifice to him. His eyes, on me, on my hair, made me feel sexy and gloriously aloof.

A feeling I lost when my hair was put away. I felt exposed and vulnerable, ordinary, without my package. I became uncertain,  more aware of and diminished by my flaws. My face was too big. My clothes were too plain. Without the longest, biggest hair in the room, what made me different?  Where was my magnetism? What would keep his eyes on me?

I thought, Who am I, anyway, without my hair?

I cornered him. Told him that I was going to cut my hair off, all of it. An experiment in self-love. Surely, he would support it if he loved me as much as he loved my hair. He laughed. I didn’t.

You’re serious? The first hint of mocking in his voice. Why would you do that?

I explained, gazed into his eyes, revealed myself. He listened, retreating with every word. He wasn’t interested in this girl. Uncertain and seeking, asking for permission. He said, It’s your hair, do what you want. Distaste introduced itself, stood between us, for the very first time.

My moxie never returned to him. The relationship cooled. We parted ways. I always wondered if he was really in love with my hair, or in love with the way it enchanted me, made me fearless.

I’ll never know. But I did cut my hair and reclaim my magic, realizing at last, that my feminine power comes from within. He had loved what I loved about myself at the time, my hair. Now, both strange and familiar, what I love about myself is on the inside, all the things that I am, without my hair.

GG