Grief by Katie Kouvelas
Denial was black. Dark and rich, pin straight, chin length. I had lost my sense of feeling, my ability to see the world clearly. Numb was my current state, empty even. I was drowning in slow motion, blinded from the direction of the surface. People thought I had gone mad when I went black. I guess in fact, I had.
Anger was blue. Vibrant and royal, light waves, shoulder length. I became painfully livid with my surroundings. My body inevitably rejected those who attempted to give me comfort. My thoughts exploded from my mind, cutting through my skin from the inside out. My hair had reached a new purpose, my coping mechanism for grief. Its ability to succumb to the identity I assigned to it was my only remaining sense of satisfaction.
Depression was red. Deep and scarlet, subtly straight, layered. My skin ached in its vacant home, my emotions lost in my hollow frame. The strength that my anger once provided me had faded and I slipped below the surface again. My world had turned gray; except for the radiance of my hair. I guess that was the beauty of it at this point. The life it gave me when I was lifeless, the personality it provided me when I was dull.
Acceptance was blonde. Natural and alive, slight curls, chest length. Over a year had elapsed of my restless thoughts, insensible dreams and bad haircuts. My mother's unexpected death left me to believe that the world was against me, that I was powerless. Hair became my strength, my mere form of control. I cut and dyed to express my grief, allowing my appearance to distract from my angst. With blonde I returned my hair to its thriving beginning, my first attempt to allow normalcy back into my life. My faith was still shattered and I did not know if I would ever fully recover, but my mother's memory had begun to slowly piece me back together.
