Growing Business

Terry and I both had long hair, but it never behaved the same way twice. Terry’s was silky and fine, the kind that caught light and let it go again, threaded with quiet reds that showed up when the sun felt generous. Mine was jet black with a blue shine that appeared only when it wanted to. Thick. Straight. Serious about its job.

We let it grow. And grow. Past reasonable. Past polite. Past the point where strangers felt comfortable asking questions in grocery store lines.

"Is that your real hair?"

"Yes."
"All of it."

We treated hair like a shared side project, something to check on the way you check tomatoes in the garden. Not fussed over, just noticed. When it got long enough to become inconvenient, when it started closing doors behind us or getting caught in seatbelts, we knew it was time.

Out came the scissors.

We cut it ourselves, standing in kitchens or bathrooms, hair gathered into thick ropes, tied off carefully like we were preparing offerings. Each of us would give away ten to twenty inches, once or twice a year. No ceremony. No drama. Just the quiet satisfaction of knowing it would go somewhere useful.

Locks of Love. Beautiful Lengths. The names alone felt like small poems.

We liked that it required no effort. No fundraising. No speeches. Just hair we already had, growing while we lived our lives. It felt efficient and kind, which is my favorite combination.

Terry loved wordplay, especially when it snuck up on you. Holding a freshly cut bundle, Terry would grin and say, “We have a growing business.” Then pause, letting it land.

It never stopped being funny.

I still do not understand how our hair grew that fast. It felt slightly suspicious, like we were borrowing time from somewhere else. Months passed. Inches appeared. Gravity did the rest.

There was something grounding about it. Seasons marked not by calendars, but by length. Spring meant braids again. Summer meant buns and patience. Fall meant measuring. Winter meant scissors.

And always, the giving.

Hair is such a quiet thing. It listens. It remembers. It leaves without complaint. Once it is cut, it belongs entirely to the future. To someone we would never meet. To a moment we would never see.

That felt right.

No effort, but meaningful.

That was us.