I made the decision to cut my hair one summer, around four years ago. I had no reason for doing so, the choice just came to me. I had spent years growing my hair. I distinctly remember how beautiful it looked the day before I had scheduled to have it cut. The curls framed my face and cascaded down my shoulders. They were a nightmare to brush, but I almost reconsidered my decision at the last moment.

I sometimes miss the weight of that hair. I miss the possibilities: I could braid it, pull it back, let it loose. There are moments in which I wish to have the warmth of those curls around my shoulders. At other times, I wish I had the patience required to let them grow again.

When my hair was longer, I wrote. I’ve always liked to write, but only recently have I learned how to write well. I wrote my first novel when I had longer hair. My English was scarce and so was my modesty. I thought I had created something worth buying. Worth reading. Worth skimming. Worthy.

I miss being proud of what I wrote, but I can’t say I miss being oblivious. My self-awareness is a gift. It’s a sign that I’m growing up. I’m not fully grown, but I’m working on it.

My new hair doesn’t cover my back like a blanket, but it does cover my head and frames around my face. I can brush it. It doesn’t break into a flag that dances in the wind, but it bounces in a funny sort of way. I don’t think I want to have long hair right now. Besides, I have little patience to spare.

Copyright © Blanca Parga 2020