It’s been coming for a while now. I went short a few weeks ago, donating my 10″ to locks of love. It was short enough to not be in my way. Nothing to hold back as I hover over a toilet. I haven’t really brushed it. I get out of the shower, blotting my pixie cut, finger combing and then letting it air dry. Lightly patting the patches that are more bare skin than hair.

After he went to bed a few nights ago, I decided I just couldn’t take it anymore. Looking at the blotchy, thinning curl. I rummaged around in the closet for his old beard/mustache trimmer.

I hesitated.

I watched TV.

I walked in the bathroom, checking out the bald spots. The thinning areas; the lumps produced by the drugs.

I made some cocoa.

I cried.

I looked at the wig I got last week from Mary’s Room @ the American Cancer Society. It’s blonde. I tried it on.

I took it off.

I noticed how much hair was stuck in the nylon cap underneath. I threw it on the floor.

I got into bed, I got out of bed.

I went in the bathroom, put on the shower radio softly, locked the door and turned on the trimmer.

I buzzed.

I didn’t say anything to him.

That was last week Monday. There’s nothing left.

I haven’t cried since.

I haven’t looked in the mirror.

He hasn’t noticed.

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