It all started a year ago.

There were a handful of days in the summer of 2011 that I could remember clearly. Most of 2011 was an invisible, suffocating screen. It lay over my head, almost tangible if I would outstretch my fingertips. I started looking for the culprit. At a point, I'd become convinced that the cause of my worries was my hair. I wanted to tear it out, burn it, shave my head bald.

He didn't want me to cut it.

"What if I do it like Carey Mulligan?"

"Who's Carey Mulligan?"

"You know, the girl from 'An Education'? She was nominated for an Academy award?

"I don't know her."

"Look," I point to the Google Images of Mulligan in sexy, short hair. "Do you think she's cute?"

"She's OK. Not my type"

"But what if I cut my hair like hers?"

"I'd break up with you."

It was always said in jest but he would repeat the same punchline whenever I'd ask again. Yes, I was asking for permission. This is what relationships are built out of right? You make a contract with each other to follow certain rules, and make sure to consult and vote on any addendums to said rules.

So, I didn't cut my hair. For a while, I colored it, straightened it, deep conditioned it. But never cut it to the length I wanted.

Finally, the day came. It was a particularly hot summer day in JulyI youtubed Audrey Hepburn in Roman Holiday over and over again. The clip where she cuts her hair off and starts to look like a real princess. That's what I wanted. The look she got after it was done.

"What do you want to do?" The clippers hovered on my scalp.

"I want to cut it as short as possible."

That day I had put on a great dress. I took pictures of my long hair, blowdryed, styled, backlit by sunlight. It pleaded to me, clinging to my shoulders, whispering behind my ears, caressing my fingers as I ran through them. But nothing could save my hair that day. Even the threat of him leaving me.

Michael, who held the clippers, hid them behind his back.

"What do you mean? Cut it all off? Like a boy?" He pushed his glasses up to meet the squint in his eyes.

"Yes, please." I had to assure him through the mirror. The decision was made.

Tomorrow, I leave LA heading North. I've never done that for myself. I'm very excited about the prospect of it. Complete freedom from all responsibilities. Next part of the story.

I must make everything a story. I think, sometimes, I write my life.

When you write, is it like SOS signals, hoping that the person on the other side can be patient enough to put the beats together, the trains of thought, into a cohesive impression of oneself.

Listen to the signals, see my smoke signs, hear the whale song. And hopefully I can also ignite what you smell and feel.

Tomorrow is going to be the beginning.