My husband shaved his head today. He's got a great head. I'd forgotten about the greatness of his head in being concerned with the curliness of his hair. I loved his hair. I thought that I might mourn its lack when he shaved it off, but I don't. I love his head now, white and bristly. I love every knot and twist and vein.
He looks tonight like the man I fell in love with, and that's a little sad. It's sad that he's not the same, not the energetic, creative, clever young man who first made me lose all sense of myself. Or he is him, but a little unwound, and I'm different, too. I'm softer around my edges, and also a little unwound. We're getting older. I'm glad we're doing it together.
The best of him is still there, though. I know it. The core is the same, and that's what I love. It's what I recognize.