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New beginnings for a new year.

For some people their hair is synonymous with who they are. For others, their hair is a blank canvas that constantly evolves. I belong to the former — to those for whom hair is a constant by which they are identified, their marker.

A few years ago I learned about Beautiful Lengths, a charitable organization by Pantene which collects donated hair and makes wigs for cancer patients. It struck a chord and I made my first donation, all 12 inches.

This time around my cut was a quiet affair. The hairdresser fretted with her measuring stick as I made my way through Alice Hoffman’s The Red Garden. I walked out of the salon, my pony tail in a ziplock bag, feeling significantly lighter. Eight inches lighter.

Several hours later and B had taken no notice of the change. He was oblivious to the cut, the hair he’d tugged a million times, gone. And all the while, I waited for some recognition of the loss, I fumed and questioned whether perhaps my “marker” is a self-perpetuated grand illusion.

Eventually he noticed, though it took a very direct approach from me which included a disapproving look, a statement of facts and a full disclosure statement. Then he sat up and noticed.

I’d like to think this oversight is symbolic of our true nature, and not boredom. B is a grand thinker, a big picture type of guy who can see far into the future whereas I thrive in the detail, the minutia of an idea, and generally can’t see beyond my self-imposed deadlines. I often miss the forest for the trees.

My hair, my veil, is now lifted.

2013 and I am weightless

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