My mother tells me this story from time to time of when I was born. A few days after bringing me home I was crying and would not stop. The kind of cry that worries a mother. After much examination and stress my mother noticed that I was actually pulling my own hair. I had grabbed a handful of hair and pulled and in doing so started to cry and grasped tighter and pulled harder as if the reaction warranted further aggression. As if I was trying to punish the hair for causing me pain by pulling it harder. Now, quite a few years later I find that sometimes my life is an extended metaphor of that moment. I should consider cutting my hair shorter.
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