Male Pygmy Auklets (A. pygmaea) grow large head crests for sexual selection. I did not know this when I opened the box my long distance boyfriend Adam sent me. We had only been “dating” a few months, both of us still wrapped up in that new relationship smell. I called him my gypsy, after his Romany heritage. Inside the box, a few CD’s, a letter, dried flowers, and something fuzzy wrapped in tissue paper. Adam is not the type to send stuffed animals, and I am not the type to ask for them. Curious, indeed. I unwrapped the tissue paper carefully, and inside lay his mo hawk, lovingly tied with six rubber bands. His head crest. An explicit statement, perhaps, of having found a mate.
Other species of birds grow incredibly long tails. I hoped he did not expect an exchange. My hair had been growing since my thirteenth birthday, and had finally reached my waist. It was my curtain, my shield from the rest of the world. Perhaps I would have done it for him, but he never asked.
Adam without hair looks like a cancer patient. He weighed ninety-eight pounds, his shoulder blades bursting from his back like stunted wings, his expression perpetually sad. While we were together, he grew his hair back out. It teased around his shoulders, delicious black ink spilling over his olive skin. His gypsy heritage.
On the day of his cousin’s wedding, he shaved the mo hawk back in. I remember his curls falling into chunks on the floor of his grandmother’s bathroom. Soon after, he stopped pressing his hand against mine, against the gear shift of his car. He stopped calling, or asking me to visit. Then, I became “too young and full of life” for him, a cop out excuse. A gypsy boy has to wander.
Years later, he emailed me to tell me about his new life. He had shaved off his mo hawk again. He had never stopped loving me, but could not stand to be apart. I was the only woman he knew who wasn’t crazy. And by the way, what was new?
Dear Adam,
I cut my hair.
