Small Reminders

My hairbrush is full.

A few years ago, I was in a car accident. Coupled with the jaw fracture and TMD that resulted from my chin becoming instantly and intimately acquainted with the steering wheel, were a host of emotional hurdles with my job at the alt weekly. The stress of missing work, anxiety over the whole ordeal, and an undiagnosed stomach issue on top of post-accident pain meant my body wasn't in the best shape. And exactly six months after this traumatic period, my hair started falling out. My kind doctor informed that for some people, stress and body trauma causes hair follicles to die. A few months later, new follicles grow enough to push the old ones out completely. It happens to women after pregnancy. Hormones make their hair shiny, and post-birth it starts to shed. I wasn't bald by any means, but my first gray hairs grew in place of the brunette strands that decided that the body they were growing on wasn't worth the stress anymore and peaced out.

I started shedding like a molting bird earlier this month, leaving long strands tangled in the shower drain and pillowcases, dropped on the kitchen counter and weaved on the sofa fabric. A joy for Mr. B to live with, I'm sure.

I pick them up in confusion and frustration. What's up, Hair? Why the sudden exodus? There's been no stress, no broken bones, no bodily harm. Freelancing isn't a gold mine, and unemployment isn't all roses and sunshine, but it's all an easy affair compared to my previous work experiences. My marriage is lovely. Mr. B is a prince.

It wasn't until I remembered to count back to six months prior that I realized the source of my hair loss. Oh. Stig's death. My biopsy. Of course. Bodily and emotional trauma, all in one fell swoop. (I wrote about it here, if you are a new reader to the blog.)

Like the seemingly innocent Facebook reminder that popped up telling me that Stig had a birthday, my hair is clogging my brush, is swishing down in my face to remind me. To make me stop. To give a pause in the early moments of my day and remember a dear friend.

You aren't forgotten, friend. I promise you that. My glass is forever raised to you.

S & N, toga party style.