i measure the passing of time with the length of my hair

The summer I turned 13 I held a funeral for my childhood. At the time I had a friend who shared the same birthday as myself and I managed to coerce her into spending our birthday mourning our childhoods together by doing things our younger selves would do. We spent that hot summer day in late July on a pilgrimage through our hometown—visiting the sentimental places of our childhoods. We sipped gas station slurpees on the hot concrete, and swung on the swing set at our elementary school until late into evening. We devoured our favourite childhood candies in a ritualistic feast—filling our bellies to the brim with the past.

I have, for as long as I remember, been obsessed with the passage of time, and the nostalgia that comes with it. Years ago I shaved my head into a buzzcut and as I grew my hair out I began to measure the passing of time with the length of my hair.

The autumn before I shaved my head I had just had my first kiss. And, before I swiped the clippers across my long dark hair I joked that I wouldn’t be having my second kiss for some time.
“Boys don’t like girls with buzzcuts, after all.” I said with a laugh.
The summer I shaved my head was the first time I was violently sexually assaulted. The next morning I sat on the floor of my shower and let the water wash over my skin from scalp, to toes. I felt dirty and too numb to cry.
I was forced to see the man who sexually assaulted me a few times after that. My hair was around the length of my bra strap when I read the news article that he had died. I felt dirty and numb on that day too.

When I started college I had begun growing out my buzz cut. I soon became best friends with a girl who looked like a combination of Diane Keaton and Mia Farrow. People would often mistake us for one another. We didn’t look alike, but we were both slim and tall with pixie cuts. My hair dark brown, and hers a vibrant copper red. We both had an affinity for vintage everything, but different brands. I was Audrey Hepburn, and French New Wave. She was Bob Dylan, Tennessee Williams, and Francois Sagan. After 6 months of school we decided to drop out of college together on the same day and to grow out our pixie cuts. Eventually she stopped answering my texts. The last time I saw her, our hair just barely touched our shoulders. A polaroid of us hangs on the mirror of my childhood bedroom, and I often wonder how long her hair is now.

The first time I fell in love I had bangs that hit just above my eyebrows. Shortly after I met him, I started growing them out. I kissed him goodbye at the door one night, with bangs still eyebrow length, and little did I know the next time I would see him, my “bangs” would be touching my collarbone. I missed him every cm my hair grew. On the day we were finally reunited I held my now grown out bangs between my fingers and declared through teary eyes “This is how long it’s been since I’ve seen you”

Last Christmas was the first time I saw my oldest brother in years. The last time I saw him I had a short bob, and now my hair grazes the waistline of my pants. He made a joke asking how many birthday’s of mine he’s missed and I reminded him he hasn’t been to a birthday of mine since I was 12. It’s strange to think someone who raised me has never really known me as an adult. He still sees me as that little girl I held a funeral for—buried in the sand beneath the swing set of my elementary school.

My father died the summer I shaved my head, and when I look at my hair it’s hard to believe how much time has passed. During this time of growing out my hair I made the mistake of refusing to trim it often enough. I’m paying the price now because the ends keep breaking off, making the growth stagnant. My hair has stopped being such an accurate measure for the passing of time.