Several years ago while I was a missionary-of-sorts in Kentucky, I met a little girl. She had bright red hair. It was beautiful. She had made the trip with several other young kids from her home church to do mission work. She was all of 8 and she couldn't stop by with her hair. Of course, I thought she was adorable and we got to talking about her hair. She had just donated 13 inches of her long, beautiful, red hair to Locks of Love. This is why she was constantly playing with her hair. This is why her hair was so short. I was inspired.
On that day, I started to grow my hair out. It was already long but it got longer... and longer... and longer. And then, one day, I asked my dear friend Rev. Ez to go with me so that I could chop off my own 13 inches of hair to be donated to Locks of Love. I needed someone to hold my hand because hair is important to me. My mom lost all of her hair to the dreaded cancer. I remember her losing it. I remember how her coarse head felt beneath my hand when it grew in. In a very bizarre twist, this gesture of chopping of my hair was relating to that loss of my mother's.
Ever since, I have had short hair. It's been nearly four years now that I have had short hair. I've justified that it makes me look older. I don't look quite so young with short hair. You know, like how old women suddenly have curly, short hair when they go fully grey (or as I'm hoping mine will go, white). Now, my hair is getting longer and for the first time in a long time, I'm thinking about growing it out again. I can't help but think that this has something to do with my own comfort in myself -- in a good way. And ya know, that's just a really fun realization. I wonder if I'll actually grow it out.