I've been fussing for several weeks about my hair. I wear it long. I have had short hair a few times in my life and I prefer it long. I think I look better with long hair and I am lucky to have hair that behaves itself and pretty much does what I want it to do.

This isn't something symbolic. Not exactly. I do notice that I am having trouble wearing bright colors. It feels somehow wrong or intrusive. Mourning, grieving can be very up front, or very symbolic, full of personal and not-so-personal rituals and behaviors. As I don't have a faith, I have fewer of those. As it's the 21st century and I live in the modern United States, we have fewer rituals or symbols as a culture. Even the colors of mourning are not universal.

I wear a lot of black. But then I always have. I like the way it looks on me. I wear a lot of purple too. Right now, my red clothes are not seeing the light of day. It's too intrusive.

So am I talking about rending my clothes and hair? No. Not at all. Well, not directly. I am talking about cutting my hair because of my left shoulder. Yeah, really.

For whatever reasons, my shoulders have decided to give way. Several years ago, I began having problems and after numerous tests and consultations, it was determined that I pretty much had very damaged rotator cuffs. Not good news. It tends to be one of those "overuse" injuries - like much arthritis or carpal tunnel, you know, repetitive stress stuff - but, big sigh, this is me we're talking about. It might have been from spending that year on crutches. Or not.

But the resolution was "nothing we can do". Because I so need my upper body strength, the risk of surgery on my damaged shoulders carried risk of its own. Anything happening to my left shoulder would be really bad news.

Then the rotator cuff essentially ruptured. On my left side. My dominant, writing, tooth-brushing, hair-brushing wheelchair-controlling side. Ack! I've coped with the off and on nature of the pain and stiffness with a range of treatments. Nothing makes it better and nothing apparently can make it better. (Note that one specialist we consulted was someone who performs orthopedic surgery on high risk patients, like people with bone cancer. He said yes. Then he read my notes, my case file and changed his mind. Damn.)

But the sad annoying truth is that dammit, I'm having trouble brushing my damn hair. Brushing and putting it back. Shampooing I can manage, but this shoulder? This one here? Doesn't want to go where I want it to go.

I am vain about my hair. Yes, I color it because I have seen myself with gray hair and I look tired and bleah. Pale. Bleah. As I so seldom wear make-up, I thought - briefly - about starting to do so to give myself some color but, oh, come on! That's pretty equally difficult. And dumb. Not the sort of thingI will do for my vanity.

The shoulder issues also mean that I cannot fuss with my hair. No curling irons, no "product" because holding my arms up at that height is uncomf...no, is painful.

When my hair is short, it curls. I'm not the right age for cute curly hair and have always not liked myself with cute curly hair. The last major haircut I got years ago was a mistake; it looked okay, but I was not comfortable and could not wait for it to grow back. (We cut off 10 inches and, yes, I donated it.)

Stu liked my long hair. He'd brush it for me - a wonderful feeling - and sometimes help me towel it dry. I always figured I'd be one of those old ladies with the long gray braid down the back and he'd learn to braid it for me. Tee shirt, drawstring pants, braid. You can see it, right? Yeah. Me too.

I'll keep experimenting, tring to find the ideal pain-free way of coping with my hair. Meanwhile, yes, David Crosby's voice is following me around in my head. I guess, at some level, I still need to let my freak flag fly.