Mom inspects my shoulder-length hair. “¿Y qué pasó con tu pelo?2” “I cut it.” “But why?” she moans. I can only muster up a long, exaggerated sigh. “I love it, especially because of why you did it.” Josefina winks. A haircut was what the doctor ordered after my heartbreak, along with a bottle of Zoloft to keep the sadness at bay.
