we make plans so that god has something to laugh at.

everything was to be perfect, and it's not that i'm bitter so much as just wistful and longing.
but sitting in the car we could hear the snowflakes falling, whispering against the windshield. the poor reception and lack of cd-cassette converter allowed us opportunity for long, languid conversations spattered with little sarcastic snippets and observations on the surrounding scenery.

"did that just say "deer processing?"
we just passed a shed with a sign that said "deer processing."
where the hell are we?"

short hair makes him look different, and i tried to pinpoint exactly what that change was. occasionally i would glance over and be startled, remind myself that a change in hair, as i should know, does not make for a change in personality.
though then again, sometimes it does.

i think back to my pathetic two-punch strike against my parents, my experiences, my image of youth and innocence.
waist-length hair felled in one swipe so that it barely reached my shoulders; a month later, even that gone, so that less than an inch stood nakedly against my head.

i shrieked every time i saw a mirror, for at least that first week.
and with nothing to hide behind, lacking the reflexive femininity of a cascade of curls, i think it did change who i am and how i interact with the world. i think i can say that i became more aggressive, more outspoken, at least in part because people looked at me and expected it.

in the soft light of late evening, i look up from where his hand rests on mine in a lull between gearshifts, watch his left hand at the steering wheel, arm up to shoulders, to the face i know as well as my own. even without the tumbling shock of hair i'm used to. he slants his eyes at me, smiles.

the snow hurls itself into the headlights.