She dances on heavens beams and carries sunshine in her hair. It gleams behind her, a silk blanket down her back and I think it is her beauty - this sheet of gold that reflects the purity of nirvana fields.
I have hung my pride there in her tresses. I didn't set out to make it so but so it is. Near four years without the touch of a blade. She is my Samson. Her beauty strong in it's denial of a trimming.
All was sweet and normal and two coffees and laughing with my office friends when he called. He was hesitant with an edge that set me cautious..."What's wrong?" Funny how the news of a scissor assault by a son upon the head of a daughter struck me harder and faster than the news of a husband and the truck that ran over his feet. I felt deflated and sick. My Samson was no more. Four years of living found piled into the kitchen garbage can. I wanted to cry. It felt it hanging there, burning behind eyes as I sought out a friend to set me right with words of "it'll all be okay."
When I came face to face with the horror - this nightmare played upon her sweet image - I fingered the broken, jagged tresses and fought against another bout of tears and felt something like panic coiling in my stomach. I was like one who had been robbed. And I know it's silly and frivolous and vanity and there are starving children across the world who deserve my tears more than this renewable blond...but this is my truth and here I wear it raw and wild.
I set her on a chair in the middle of the kitchen and I combed the mess now spoiling her head. So still she sat as I brushed and brushed and steeled myself to the aching moment before I leveled the blade above her shoulder and cut off the story of her life in great flaxen piles. There her gold was spilled - there upon my kitchen floor. The sweet girl who wishes to be Rapunzel.
I took her to stand before the mirror to show us both that she is still the fairest one of all. She stared at herself and tilted her head and I told her how beautiful she is and she turned and tucked herself into my arms and clung to me - not because she was sad but because she knew that I was. I watched our embrace reflected back to me and I could see the nape of her neck so long hidden beneath those years of mane. Her eyes shone and her face glowed just like I've always known it to glow and I know now that Samson's power isn't in that ugly pile on the laminate - it's in her heart that beats against mine as I hold her.
Later, as she readied for her bath, she caught herself again - that her in the mirror looking back - and tugged at the edges short. "When will I be nowmal aden, Mommy?" And while my heart broke, I kissed her and lifted her into the tub. "You, my baby, are perfect!"