A little at a time, no big difference, that single strand doesn’t stand a chance.
Little by little, I pick and pull, I feel my anxiety giving a pull.
With each pick and pull, my anxiety slips away, feeling free and relaxed for the day
One little strand doesn’t make much difference, two little strands don’t make a difference.
Hours pass by, and I glance at my lap, the sight the heap pile of hair but it was only one little strand maybe two.
I feel the anxiety spike, sucking me in, I pick and pull more to control it, watching the hair fall.
The freedom comes, but then when I see the hair on my lap the freedom runs!
I brush my hair, and look at it in disgrace, what is that mess? It certainly isn’t hair!
I try hide it in a bobble, it is useless, bits fall out, to short to stay, the bald patch there on show for everyone to see.
I was my hair, hoping the hair I picked at won’t look so bad, but it is futile, the hair is dead.
That one little strand turned into one hundred, it made me feel free, threw anxiety into the wind.
Then I see the result the pile of matted, broken, pulled out hair on my lap, and anxiety comes back 10 times over, smashing into me like a runaway train.
There is no escape, the relapse happens daily, and I look in the mirror daily with disgrace, wondering what awaits me, and sure enough it isn’t fair.
Please don’t stare, it only makes me lose more hair, please don’t ask if my daughter cut her hair it only makes her lose more hair.
Together we sit picking our hair, trying to push anxiety away from us so we can be free.