And so it begins.

 My hair is falling out.

I run my hands through my hair
and come away with pieces of myself.

Like pine needles from a dying Christmas tree.
Like petals from a shrinking orchid.
Like pulled spears of summer grass.

Except.

This is part of me:
Memories, skin cells, identity.

All that was left of
countless knots and tangles;
hours of brushing;
fingers through the tresses;
ponytails, braids, dancer buns.

My husband says don't touch,
which reminds my hands to drift to my scalp.
Check if it's all still there.
A losing battle between physical and mental.

My mom says to think of it as thinning.
My hair was thick enough before.
A few lost strands here or there
won't make too much of a difference.

I wear a hat
to cover, to protect, to pretend
like everything is okay.

Even though, as each follicle of hair dies,
I die a little more inside.