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I Am Not My Hair

I stood in front of the bathroom mirror yesterday, with a pair of scissors in my hand.
When I made the first cut, it was done. There was no going back again.
Within minutes the sink was filled with chunks of black hair. And I started to feel… free.
We women seem to hold so much of our self esteem in our hair. We use it to flirt, to hide behind and to enhance our beauty.
As a child, I used to cry when my hair was cut. One of my earliest memories is …