Musings of a bald woman – Part I.

Just another day gone.

Nothing special. Nothing of note.

Really, no great historical event that took place

Just a little anniversary that was celebrated by a couple I know. We had a splendid time, me and myself.

I find myself wondering at times if you are fine, just a small irrational way that my heart has, of not forgetting those it had loved before. It is a difficult organ, this pulsating mess that lives inside me. It makes me cry and laugh and forget the most important things – like cut directs and insults. It seems to have a veil that filters all sensible material and lets me feel only that which makes me, as you so elegantly put it, stark raving mad.

Do you remember me at all?

I remember your shrug, deprecating my nonsense, as it seemed to you. So much nonsense that I still retain.

Do you know the biggest curse that a photographic memory leaves behind? I still remember your eyes, vacant, empty of the love that had once been there.And no amount of photoshopping lets me forget that what was there is no more.

I dance the old steps, holding the air in between and hum at times. It is difficult I find, this business of dancing without a partner. You would think that all those hours of practice would make me perfect, but all they do is remind me, again and again, why I danced with you.

I wake up at midnight and comb my hair out and cut it off again. No one can get my tangles out, the way you could. And the hair was getting heavy. It would at times betray me, trying to pretend that your hands were combing through it.

Do you know I am almost bald now?

My neighbours tell me they think I am a widow. Apparently, a woman who voluntarily chops her hair off is assumed to have no man in her life.

I now wear a wig, just to let them know that there are substitutes for men. We women just have not searched long enough.

We foolishly think that losing a soulmate to another is more painful than losing them to death. More painful is the belief that there is just one soulmate for each of us out there. I repeat this to myself, again and again, like a mantra at night.

I notice at times that the wig is not as heavy as my hair. It is light, has no memories and so is all mine. Not like my hair, that treacherous black mane that became too heavy to be carried around.

I placed an order today for an artificial heart, to reduce the weight of the one I currently carry. Apparently, there is a waiting list and it could take centuries for delivery.

Imagine all us foolish women, who so easily gift our hearts away. Is it any wonder that they are priced so cheap?

(This is a piece of fiction and will be published in parts).


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