I thought I would be brave and that I would not cry,

But cry I did,

when I made that call to have my 

strands of silver 

shorn.  

Shorn.

So many images come to mind when I speak the word.

Sheep in the pasture after a shearing looking so 

naked.

So exposed.

Powerless,

 they are led to the shearing shed

 where their wool is cut and gathered.

Shorn.

The word can be used to describe depriving someone from power once wielded.

Shorn.

Yes, the days when my hair could be brandished,

shown off for its natural curl and color,

are gone.

I held on to those silver curls even when they were getting thin

because I needed to twirl them in my fingers,

wash them,

shake them out,

ply them.

I remember when once they wielded power over all the other girls with straight locks.

They looked at me with envy after a day of swimming.

In those days,

days of my youth,

I did not flaunt my curls on purpose.

In fact,

I did not love them.

I did not embrace them.

I fought them.

I straightened them.

Tape.

Orange juice cans.

Wrapping strands of hair on great big rollers,

before I went to bed.

Blow driers.

Hot irons.

Curling irons.

Reverse perms.

I tried all methods I ever knew of to try to achieve the looks the other girls had.

I did not want my curls.

I did not want those unique locks.

And yet,

curls 

have always been a major part of my identity.

There once was a little girl

With a little curl

Right in the middle of her forehead.

That was me.

When I was older,

I let my hair go silver, and it was a beautiful silver.

I finally learned to embrace my curls.

And then,

I began to lose those silver strands of hair.

Strand,

By 

strand

hair fell from my head over many days and nights,

eight years of days and nights where hair fell out.

Silver would cover my clothing.

Silver strands would tangle in my fingers as I washed my hair.

It was a 

Slow

Shedding

Of

Silver 

Strands.

Shorn

By a strange disease,

scars

replaced where each of my hair follicles once flourished.

Today, 

I ran my fingers through those very few 

strands of silver

for

one last time.

My fingers where tangled in the 

silver strands

that have been deserting me.

Silver strands on a headband

I am done.

It is now time 

to wield

 my own power.

Today, I will be 

Shorn

Of these 

Silver strands forever.