my hair, too long sometimes, covering my face. i like to hide there within the tresses, imagining nobody can see me. imagining...

sometimes, though, an urge strikes me. an urge to release, to become visible, to breath freely. to something.

and i run to the bathroom with scissors in hand and chop it off. chop chop. all gone.

as if a huge weight has been lifted. a lightness has been found. as if i can walk again, or see again.

i cut my own hair, sometimes. sometimes just when a change is needed. sometimes just when it's all the same.