𝑰𝑵𝑲 • 𝑻𝒆𝒘𝒌𝒆𝒔𝒃𝒖𝒓𝒚 / 𝑳𝒐𝒖𝒊𝒔 𝑷𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒓𝒊𝒅𝒈𝒆

Orbit's End

And I could go on to pretend that I decided to cut off all of my hair for myself, because I wanted to and because it was a power move; because I was an independent woman who could do with her appearance what she pleased. Because I had managed to dance in a pub without bursting into tears or losing my mind, and liberating myself of the hair on my head was the natural course of action.

I did what I did because it was all that I could think to do, the only thing capable of giving me back the control I so often craved. The control I had allowed myself to lose that morning.

I knew that bringing the book was a bad idea. That despite telling myself I wasn't going to read it, that I wasn't going to so much as look at it; that I would end up doing both of those things. Because in a moment of weakness, I was overpowered my how much I missed him, and wanted nothing more than to return to the previous month. When things were simpler. When marriage wasn't on the table.

So in the daylight, after the sunrise, but before the rest of the world woke up, I opened up the book I had been staring at all night. But as I did so, I was transported back to an age ago. When I had found myself in a similar situation.

Returning to the book because my longing for him would always undermine any amount of self discipline I possessed. Because, as I'd come to learn, Tewkesbury was as important to my life as oxygen and water. And I'd been deprived of both for far too long.

The cut was an impulse decision. I acted on a whim, because I wanted control. I wanted to choose something for myself. And at the time, in that exact moment, cutting my hair was all that I could do.

Picking up the clumps, sweeping away the strand that had not long ago been a part of me was bittersweet. I felt as though I had betrayed myself, as if I was peeling away a layer of my being, disposing a portion of my identity. As if it were myself I was tossing into the bin.

I quickly got dressed and carried the mess downstairs. I had high hopes that 'out of sight, out of mind' would apply to this experience, and that parting with my hair and sending it far away where all the other rubbish goes would hopefully cement the act enough to force my brain to accept it. To accept the fact that I wasn't going to wake up the next morning with a mane, and wouldn't do so for at least a few years.

As I reached the bottom of the stairs, I came face to face with Ms Darby, the outspoken and rather unhinged woman who ran the lodging house I had been staying in. Every morning she insisted that I, and all the other girls, join her for breakfast. Only, she'd have the cook make far too much food, and stare at us until it every single plate was empty, and every serving consumed.

She was welcoming and endearing all the same, but I made it a point to rise and begin my day before any form of breakfast could even be mentioned. And as it was usually Ms Darby who handled the business of garbage disposal, and ensuring all of out rooms were clean, her confusion was not misplaced when she saw me descending the stairs, bin in hand, with much of my hair lying in said bin.

I stopped in my tracks, waiting for her to say something, perhaps ask me a question or inquire upon my well being. But when nothing, not a single word, was voiced, I couldn't help the awkward, shaky chuckle that emerged from my mouth. Followed by a sheepish, and understandably embarrassed smile.

She watched me in silence, eyes darting up to mine, to my hair, and then down to the bin. I assume she gathered what I had done because she didn't bat another eye before returning to what she had been doing before.

As she continued to hang up the keys to every room on a labeled nail board, she finally said something.

"I like it, " Was her simple answer, "It's very French."