Today was a day of long walks and tasty coffee while observing old folks, finishing homework, and doodling lazily. This weather excites me in a quiet way. With the lack of sunshine, I find enjoyment in less predictable things like the color of the mud on my boots and the damp smell of my coat. I like the sprinkle of rain on my face as I walk to the market, my hair sticking slightly to the water on my skin and curling in loose ringlets at my shoulders.
My hair is longer now, slowly creeping further past my neck, down to the ridge where my spine curves between my shoulder blades.
Last night, I dreamt that I cut it off. I put it in a ponytail and hacked at it fiercely with a pair of scissors. The scissors slipped, slicing deeply into my hand, drawing blood that dripped slowly down my arm. I cried silently, bemoaning the loss of my dark brown curls, now drenched and in red clumps on the bathroom tile. I saw my face in the mirror, tear streaked and puffy, tufts of uneven hair clinging to the sides of my face at awkward angles. I can’t remember ever seeing my face so clearly in a dream.