Hair

My hair has always fallen to the middle of my back. And in my face, when I would lay down in my bed with a boy. And down the drain in the shower with each wash. My hair has always been red, like my resentment and my jealousy and my beauty and my individual. Never too bright, or too dark. Just red against the translucent canvas that is my skin. It seems at twenty my hair is no longer a dead cell though, but rather a long, red metaphor of my youth growing out of my head. I was once told boys would not be attracted to me if I were to cut it. I was told I would look old if I did so. I was told it is too beautiful to throw away like that. I always heard, but could not understand because as I said, it is dead, so how can it feel pain? How can it do all those things? As it seems though, hair can be more than just a cell, but instead an expression, a symbol of maturity, an attraction, a reason for cast judgment. I want to cut it all off though, because hair is none of those things. Those are thoughts and thoughts are not on top of my head, they are in my head.