Symbollic hair

I'm sitting here at a lake in central Oklahoma watching the clouds roll by and the wind whip the trees. It's hard to believe just 4 years ago this month I met my husband. And fell wildly in love.

I've debated the wisdom in writing this post but realized anybody that knows me and my husband already know that we had a little hiccup in our matrimonial menu.

This morning started out wonderfully, both of us in a fantastic mood, laughing, smiling and joking around. My husband grabbed a quick shower and for me the mood changed immediately. It changed because of the hair.

Tto me his hair has become a symbol. It's symbollic of the man who could not just walk away from me, our marriage and everything we'd ever meant to each other, but run. As far and fast as he could. A man who could callously tear my heart in pieces and continue to run. A man I found I didn't know. A man with long hair.

His hair wasn't long when we met. He kept it short and well groomed. When he left, he began growing his hair out. To me it is a sign of his rebellion. A symbol. A reminder that he left, turning my world inside out with his leaving. A sign that he could easily do so again.

It's not that I think his hair looks bad long because it doesn't. He's beautiful to me either way. And though it's just hair and I really should let go of these feelings I find it hard to move beyond them. It's as if, in keeping the long hair, he's withholding making that final commitment to be fully back in this relationship. A foot out the door per se.

As I watch him flip his wet hair back from his face, smooth his hands over it and plaster it down with Bed Head styling gel, then spray it with more Bed Head product, I feel something inside me disconnect.

So I wait. And watch. And hope that one day he will walk through the door, his short hair neatly combed and the incredible smile he always wore creasing his face once again.