My honey just cut my hair. Again.
Ever since the lockdown was first declared in March of 2020, I have seldom ventured outside the gated community we live in. And within our subdivision, only to walk for half an hour up, down, and around the seven streets, late at night, when most people have already turned out their lights for the night.
And so, every few months, my honey cuts my curls.
It’s funny, over our three decades together he rarely notices when I have my hair cut. He says it makes no difference; either it’s a big fuzzy ball or a small fuzzy ball.
Well, thanks to him, it’s now about as short as I’ve ever had it.
While he was taking the scissors to my head, I was thinking about trust.
How so much of what we do in life involves trust.
Trusting my honey not to harm me while cutting my curls was easy. Especially since I’ve already let go of how my hair—how I—will look.
Tomorrow, I get my initial chemo and Herceptin infusion.
I’ve not yet met my medical oncologist in person. I was referred to him.
I choose to trust that my surgeon made the best referral.
I choose to trust that my oncologist will have my wellness top of mind. And that he has the expertise to do what needs to be done.
I choose to trust the process and that the outcome will be what’s best for me, my body, my mind, my soul.
The butterflies in the pit of my stomach tell me I’m nervous.
And I’ll continue to trust.