Rapunzel’s hair must have hung heavy on her: not just maintenance and standard of beauty, but a ladder for her witch-mother and her lover, the only way to bring the distant and dangerous world up to her tower.
That’s a lot for a good girl to carry.
I sheared off a few years yesterday: the quick blade, the good conversation (littered with friendly f-bombs), the touch of someone else’s hands on my scalp– all the lifting of a great weight.
I left it lying on the floor, for some good cindermaid to sweep up, for birds to claim for next spring’s nests, as proof of what I no longer require. And I stepped into the world as light as Rapunzel, never looking back to see if the tower fell or not.
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