There are times - up on the 20th floor - when I wish my hair was longer - that someone could climb up it to rescue me from myself - in the isolation that I have created.
My friends tug at my metaphorical hair - telling me that it is okay to trust - to let people in - to be less grrr and to smile more. It seems like I am able to hear this more now than I have ever been able to.
The 19 stories below me are filled with trying to make jokes to hide my vulnerability - and sometimes it seems as if I am on the ground floor - and the 19 floors are actually horizontally splayed out before me as impervious walls that no one can traverse.
I am aware though that I must bring myself to the ground level and knock those walls down - before I get that third cat and resign myself to spinsterhood. Then no one will need to climb up my hair - I will already be there on their level.
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