“You’d look better with shorter hair.” “Isn’t long hair too much work at your age?” “Women your age usually go for a shorter style.”
I hear these comments all the time. I’m in my 60s, and my hair is long—past my waist. It’s now a soft blonde-white, like the light on a winter morning. And no, I don’t cut it. Not because I’m stuck in the past. Not because I want to look younger. But because of him.
People assume I just don’t like change. If they only knew.
Every morning, when I brush my hair, I remember his hands running through it. When the wind lifts it, I hear his voice, calling me his “wildflower.” He always loved my hair—said it made me look free, like something from a dream. And then one day, he was gone.
Cancer doesn’t care about love or time. It took him too fast. One moment, we were making plans, and the next, I was holding his hand in a hospital room, knowing it was the last time. Standing there, I made a quiet promise—I wouldn’t cut my hair. Not yet.
It’s not about refusing to move on. It’s not about trying to hold onto the past. It’s about keeping a piece of him with me for a little longer. Some people hold onto old letters or a favorite sweater. For me, it’s this.
So when people tell me I should cut it, I just smile. They don’t understand. To them, it’s just hair. To me, it’s something more. And one day, maybe I will be ready. Maybe I’ll sit down, take the scissors, and let it go. But not yet.
Until then, I’ll keep it the way it is. Because some things aren’t just about style or convenience. Some things hold memories, and those memories are worth keeping.