imperfect prose on thursdays: the day i cut my dreadlocks

i always pictured myself an old woman with dreads.

now i'm a young girl with dull-chopped hair and the dreads in the basket on the back-deck where a cold wind blows, because he asked me to.

my husband, he asked if i would cut my hair when he shaves his when she loses hers, his mom, who's going through chemo, and i don't think so, i said. i love my dreads too much.

but he rarely asks, and it's his mom. and it's only hair. yet for her, it's everything, because she has no choice and i do. and so i chose love in the form of dull scissors and a tuesday evening and our sons watching and laughing in shock as the hair fell. his and mine.

and she'd asked him to shave her head when she woke up one morning and her hair remained on the pillow.

so we piled in the car, all toques and pajamas, and we pulled up the drive, and pulled off the hats as if to say, "see how much? this is how much... we love you" and trent's mom gasped.

and i can feel the contours of my head again, and the short strands smooth. and this is what love feels like. all clean and soft, and always growing.

and it feels good.




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