There was only one thing I had left that anyone would pay real money for.
My hair.
Twenty-two inches of thick blonde hair I hadn’t cut short in years. My husband used to call me Rapunzel. He would stand behind me while I brushed it and say, “Do not ever cut this. It is unfair to the rest of us.”
“Are you sure?”
“No,” I said. “But do it anyway.”
I kept my hands locked together under the cape.
The first cut sounded louder than it should have.
Snip.
I kept my hands locked together under the cape. I told myself not to cry. It was hair. It would grow back. It was not a limb. It was not my marriage. It was not my husband.
But when she turned the chair and I saw all that missing length, something inside me buckled.
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