From the window at night, the silhouette of a woman in the warm glow of an opened window in a building across the street is sliding a thick hairbrush from the top of her head to the ends of her hair ending just below her breasts. I'm reminded of a semi erotic novel about a young woman who ritualistically brushed her hair one hundred times before bed in efforts to ground herself.

I've had this reoccurring dream for as long as I can remember. I look in the mirror and see my hair is haphazardly cut short. I run my fingers through what is left. I wake up and reach for my tangled hair in devastation and relief.

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