My 12-year-old daughter came home with a pixie cut after spending the day with my mother-in-law. When I finally learned why, I ended up crying harder than she did.
My daughter, Tessa, had always been known for her hair.
It was thick, chestnut brown, and so long that when she sat down, she had to pull it over one shoulder so she wouldn’t sit on it.
People noticed it everywhere we went.
At the grocery store, strangers would stop us to tell her how beautiful it was. At school, some of the younger girls asked if they could touch it. Tessa pretended to be embarrassed by the attention, but I knew how much that hair meant to her.
She had been growing it for years.
Every Sunday evening, she sat on the living room rug between my knees while I brushed it.
It was our thing.
No phones. No rushing. No work calls unless it was an emergency.
At least, that was how it was supposed to be.
One Sunday night, I found a tiny split end and joked, “Maybe it’s finally time for a trim.”
Tessa immediately twisted around.
“No.”
“Tess, I’m talking half an inch.”
“Nope.”
I laughed. “You’re going to have to cut it eventually.”
She hugged her hair dramatically against her chest.
“Never. You’ll have to bury me with it.”
“Tessa!”
“I’m serious, Mom.”
She was smiling, but I knew she meant it.
The next afternoon, my mother-in-law, Nadine, picked her up after school.
My husband, Eric, was out of town for work again, and I had a report due before the end of the day. Nadine offered to take Tessa shopping for a new pair of sneakers and then get ice cream.
