Prompt: Write about a character's hair

I looked down at the pile of hair on the ground and gently touched my shorn tips between my fingers. I exhaled and closed my eyes.

A month before we had broken up, Blake had protested when I told him I wanted to cut my hair.

“But baby, your hair looks so good when it’s long.” He tussled it and stroked my arm.

He had a habit of only acknowledging—and perhaps overestimating—my feminine side. On the basis of the three plants I kept alive in my Brooklyn apartment, he deemed that I would “be a good mother.” When I wore oversized clothes, he would tell me there was no need to hide my body.

And I was never more beautiful to him than when I was wearing makeup and something tight. I theorized that his preference of me in white had something to do with some kind of purity fetish he never acknowledged.

"Obviously, it’s your body,” he told me one night after retracting his hand my shin, “but I just have a preference for shaved legs.” He was a self-proclaimed feminist.
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As I looked at myself in the mirror, it was more than the weight of my hair that I had shed.