Exodus.

I wake up surrounded by hair that is mine, but not mine. Once mine. No longer mine. 

I try not to weep for the loss. My ear itches and, welp, there goes a sideburn. There's no point in brushing it, or even showering. But I do anyway, out of habit. I watch the hair float down like dandelion seeds. They cling to my skin, my clothes, the furniture. They collect in my hand, around my neck, on the floor. I need to get used to these tumbleweeds of hair. And what do I do about my eyebrows? Now I know why people just shave it all off. 

It's just hair. It'll grow back.

It'll grow back.

It'll grow back.

It'll grow back.

I consider each falling strand: Thank you for the last thirty years, when you were strong and smooth and shiny. Thank you for growing quickly so that I could donate fifteen inches of you every other year to people in need. Thank you for being the subject of compliments and for giving me confidence and for making me feel beautiful. Thank you for all of the bad hair days I never had. Until we meet again, I send you off to "a far green country under a swift sunrise." I anxiously await your return.