It was the last night of my summer theatre gig. The one I had accepted with excitement that my boyfriend and I would get to work and spend the whole summer together. The one that ended in heartbreak and having to see the newly ex-boyfriend everywhere I turned. Tomorrow, it would all be in the past. Tonight I would sit and laugh with friends, drink champagne straight out of the bottle, watch the sunset over Lake Ontario, and completely ignore the presence of my former love sure to be in attendance.

So far so good, for the most part. I couldn’t help but notice when he arrived, along with his typical cohorts. But he remained standing in the back of the group, while I sat on a blanket in the front. Ha ha, my view of the sunset is far superior to his! Oh right, I’m not supposed to be thinking about him. Someone passed me a spoon and a tub of mint chocolate ice cream. I took a heaping spoonful, feeling pleased with myself- I hadn’t had any appetite in weeks. There were days when I literally forced myself to eat, knowing if I fainted, it was his contractual obligation to take me to the hospital. Now here I was actually wanting some ice cream. Things were looking up!

I was licking the ice cream off my spoon and staring at the horizon, when my mouthful was interrupted, “Cliché!” My friend Avis hissed my name and gave a meaningful look to the direction I was trying so desperately to ignore. I returned her look with one of dread and searched her face for a clue. What did she want me to see? Had he gotten some horrible new tattoo? Or even worse, a sexy one? Was the goatee he’d been cultivating for the past month finally gone? The one I had hated from the start but never said anything? Of course, my biggest fear was that I’d look and see him holding hands with some other woman. That was something I could not handle yet.
“Are you sure I should look?” I questioned Avis, pointedly.
“Yes. Just look,” she commanded.

I turned and looked. He was standing with the bandana he had previously been wearing now in his hand. His uncovered head now revealing his hair. Short hair. Oh My God, he had cut his hair! The ponytail he had held on to since age 12, the one he had been so emotionally attached to, the one he would death-stare you down if you even hinted that he cut it, was gone! I stared, shocked. Then realized I was staring and quickly looked away.

“Wow.” I said to Avis, “He fucking cut his fucking hair.” Pardon my french, but moments such as this require swearing like a sailor.
“Yep,” she scoffed. Avis is an intensely loyal friend.
“Shit. Did not see that one coming.” While in the anger stages of grief, I had entertained revenge fantasies about cutting that ponytail off. I knew such an act would inspire livid rage, that he would never forgive me. I knew I would never actually do it, but I never dreamed he actually would!
“Fuck. This is weird! I’m not sure how I feel about this.”
“I think it means you won.”

I certainly didn’t feel like I’d won. I didn’t know how I felt. The Harry I had known and loved was truly gone.

I didn’t end this relationship with the cliché Break Up Haircut. He did.