Big Bang

Brittney Spears and I have one thing in common (maybe two). Number one: Our dance moves mystify. Number two: We get rid of our hair whenever the going gets tough. When I'm under any sort of duress, my hair is the first thing to go: lips, brows, underarms, legs, and, of course, the hair on my head. Gone. Gone. Gone.

In college I had decided that I was NEVER getting married. I wasn't the marrying type. Too grouchy. Too headstrong. Too unsure of myself. My emotions wrapped themselves up in a pair of scissors and dared to cut my hair shorter than Spock's, and yes, I looked just like a Romulan, ears and all. Weeks later, I was standing in the doorway laying a wet one on my beloved. When I least expected love, it was there crumbling the Bumble and bumble in my slicked hairdo.

My college haircut has repeated itself, again and again, like a religious ceremony. Each time something big happens: newborn baby, disappointment, new church calling, loss of a loved one, new house, or an empty nest for eight hours a day, the scissors come to do the job.

Like a caterpillar emerging from her cocoon, I leave the bathroom transformed. I'm stronger, ready to grab life by her necklace and get back what I came here for. All the while, I'm cushioned with unbreakable love. I always know, in the back of my mind, the fall will never be hard enough to break what's bolstering me upward.

Why does it take a new set of bangs to remind me that nothing will change more than this life?

Embrace it, chica.