“You’d look younger with a shorter cut.”
“Long hair is for young women.”
“Isn’t it a hassle to maintain at your age?”
I hear it all the time. I’m in my 60s, and my hair is long—down past my waist. It’s a soft blonde-white now, like winter sunlight. And no, I don’t cut it. Not because I’m stubborn. Not because I’m trying to cling to youth.
But because of him.
Most people assume I just don’t like change. If they only knew.
Every morning, when I brush through the strands, I remember his fingers running through it. When the wind catches it, I remember him laughing, calling me his “wildflower.” He used to love my hair—said it made me look like something out of a dream. And then one day, just like that, he was gone.
Cancer doesn’t care about promises or future plans. It took him fast, too fast. And I made a decision, standing beside his hospital bed, his hand limp in mine—I wouldn’t cut my hair. Not until I was ready to let go.
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