The Crown Chakra

“So, what brings you here today?” she began, one leg folded neatly over the other, black marble notebook perched carefully on her knee. I couldn’t help but analyse her choice; that notebook was both boring and trying too hard to be inconspicuous. Every other item in the room was carefully curated, so its attempt to be unremarkable only made it stick out more. A blunt reminder that when things were put down on paper, they always felt a little more real.

“I have this… fear.” I twisted my fingers inside my frayed strands anxiously, like I was burrowing them. “I haven’t had a haircut since I was a child.” Conscious that it was only instinct to look, I untangled myself and let my hand fall limply into my lap.

There was no indication that she did look. She kept her gaze deliberate, waiting for eye contact. And you want to cut it?” She probed gently.

“I have my wedding coming up. I want to feel finished. I don’t want to feel…embarrassed looking back at those pictures.”

“Congratulations,” She replied with a small smile, making a note. “Your fiancé, Liam was it? How are the two of you going with the planning?”

“Liam’s been really wonderful.” I couldn’t help but feel a little pride, but it was almost instantly soured by guilt. “He knows the wedding is going to be a difficult time for me, without my sister and all.”

She knew this was her opening. Closing the notebook, she leant in ever so slightly to close the space between us. “Would you like to tell me about her?”

“Everybody loved Mia.” I sighed, inundated by the same memory as always. It existed under a sheen, like it was coated in a filmy overlay. A dreamlike quality with the soft edges of an early Sunday morning. I shuffled down the hall, careful not to wake anyone. Light still trapped behind the drapes, the house was enfolded in friendly darkness. Peaceful. She was still fast asleep when I crept into her room, mouth slightly ajar, hair fanning around her on the pillow. I squeezed in beside her, leeching the warmth trapped underneath her blankets. I ran my fingers through her satiny locks as she slept, even plaiting her hair into mine and watching them mesh into the hair of one girl.

“Did you know the lifespan of each hair on your head is two to seven years?” I offered this up, rather than talk about Mia. “And all of your cells, they rejuvenate every seven to ten years.” I always felt my skin prickle at that thought, like I was suddenly aware of all the nerves endings covering my body. “I guess I’m just scared, that soon, I will be different. Soon I will be a person that was never physically with her, never physically knew her.”

If I really wanted to torture myself, I would research what Mia would be like now. It was likely in this stage of decomposition she would not have any hair left at all. People had always said Mia’s hair was her best feature. Nobody ever said that about mine. I had the same honey shade, but mine lacked the glossiness of Mia’s, often drying frizzy. If people wanted to put it politely, they would say my hair had more volume. My hair just had more life. And it did. I felt a fresh stab of pain at where my thoughts had led me, a new angle of torment.

The therapist considered my comments, studying the distress in my expression. “You know, some people believe that hair holds trauma.” She volunteered, steering control of the conversation. “That it holds onto the negative energy it absorbs. Cutting your hair can symbolise letting go, signal transformation. The crown chakra. That’s what your hair’s connected to.” It didn’t seem like this belief belonged to her, but she didn’t need to believe it herself. I was the one who had wound my hands back into my hair like a child clasping a comfort blanket.

I dreamed of Mia again that night. We were cuddled up, limbs tangled together. Her hair took over the pillow, stray strands tickling my face, my nose. I nudged her slightly, retrieving my arm out from under her. She rolled away, too quickly, toppling right off the bed. It was like she had unraveled, leaving her honey locks littering the head of the bed. Waking with a start, I felt my skin with trembling fingers to check there were no phantom hairs plastered to my body with my sticky sweat.

I had made the decision. I couldn’t keep myself tethered to her forever. Tethered to a ghost.

“And you’re sure you want me to cut all that off?” The hairdresser asked yet again. “It’s so lovely and long. You’ve really thought about it?” She pulled the hair around over my shoulder, marking out the proposed length again with her fingers so I could see.

“Ooh is that virgin hair? A hairdressers dream!” The young stylist from one chair over piped up, fluffing the layers of her client’s finished haircut.

I nodded quickly, willing her to just get it over with, “I want to start fresh.” I was still battling with the urge not to change my mind, to get up and leave while I still could.

“I’ll start with a little less, and we can always make it shorter from there, okay?” The stylist could sense my hesitance and bought her fingers down the length a couple more inches.

She took the scissors to the section by my face first so I could see the result. I watched as the loose locks fell, gathering around my feet at the floor. She caught my eye in the mirror, seeing the tears that were beginning to form. She looked nervous again. She probably thought this was one of those spontaneous haircuts; an ill-thought-out post break up distraction. There was no turning back now. “You know,” she said, “The funny thing about hair is sometimes we have cut it shorter to let it grow. It always grows back healthier.”