I am growing my hair to my ass. I need it to be long enough in case I ever change my name to Rapunzel, am trapped in a tower and need a man to climb up my hair and rescue me? Fuck that.
I am growing my hair because it is straight and long and pretty. I am growing my hair because it tickles my back when I am naked. I am growing my hair because this may be the last chance I have. I am almost 55 and if you look around the majority of, “older women” have shorter hair.
I don’t want to follow the rules. I want to be able to stand above my lover when we are naked and tickle his balls with my long silky locks. I want to be able to wrap my nakedness in hair and cover up my aging body if I so wish. Maybe I want to dangle it from the pier and wait for brave and wise old Mr. Hawksbill to see it and come pull me in the aquamarine waters of serenity, so then I can join all my fish friends and become a mermaid once more.
I get so tired of all these corners of my life. When my hair is down to my buttocks I can use the wispy ends as brushes and paint myself out of the darkness. I can splash the lemonade and mango sunshine up in the corner to illuminate my fathers Monet painted ties and color the lavender of my mother’s love. I can drip the indigo, midnight and cerulean blues onto the floor and squish my toes in them.
When I cry at night I can use my long, golden locks to wipe away my tears or use them to caress my nipples until I scream out in longing for the touch of my lover.
Long hair is not for the unimaginative youth-or the little girls who cry every time their mother tries to brush out the knots. Long hair is for the aging, it’s one of the last legal expressions of rebellion we have. Every where I turn there are men who are bald on top and the back of their hair is in a ponytail to their ass. On men, it looks like a limp noodle or a withered vine. But on me it will sparkle and glow. It will make men take a second glance, and my friends caress it for its silky smoothness.
And, when I am afraid or alone I can paint my way back into my world under the stairs. The place where my colors were born, my imaginary friends created and my tiny feet placed upon the dandelion road to a world of discovery, growth and beauty.
I am growing my hair to my ass. I need it to be long enough in case I am ever living on a deserted island and I need to weave a home from it, a mat to lay upon or a net to catch fish in. I may even use some of my hair to create a soft quill in order to pen my life story of all the corners I have found myself in and fought my way out of.
I am growing my hair to my rear and possibly longer until it forms golden puddles of security around my aging feet, or winged slippers to carry my up into the sky, towards the warming light which has beckoned and cradled me since first breath.
My long, soft strands of age make me feel young. They put a smile upon my face, make me walk taller and give me confidence to know I can conquer anything.
So, I continue to grow my hair to my derriere, while I wear my Victorias Secret underwear. If I ever am trapped in that tower I will guarantee you one thing, I will never wait to be rescued, but cut off my long tresses, braid them and climb to safety myself, for if there is one thing I know for sure – here on earth I am truly the only one who can save me from the cornered silence of my fears.