As we cut her hair into a graduated, slight A-line bob, the tears flowed down her already tear-streaked face. "I had to put my kitty down last night." He was fourteen years old and had a cancerous tumor. Through the last couple of years of battling cancer, he would still maneuver his way down the steps to greet her when she came home, and Tina never asked how much the bill would be. The oncologist said, We're sorry, but he has a couple of days only. The oncologist and his assistant went to her house and put him to sleep. She made a comfortable place for him on his favorite chair in the TV room. She fed him baby food from her fingertip, and they sat together and watched TV.
She kept apologizing for her tears. I said, "Your heart is open; this is a beautiful thing." Her vulnerability struck me. She had never shown even a smidge of this side of her before. She said, 'I'm a schooled extrovert; I am an introvert.'
Her usual unruly hair that liked to kick out and not participate with the rest of the haircut lay down, smooth and shiny. Her hair had finally grown out enough to create this shape. The spunky ends didn't have to fight anymore.