Undercut trims and other measurements

"Your roots look more blonde as they grow out." I said to Bunny, sitting across from her at the visitation room. She absentmindedly twirled the hair at the nape of her neck.

"My undercut is growing out. I need it trimmed." she replied.

I grabbed at the awkward layer of hair that stuck out at strange angles beneath the longer locks growing above it. "Mine too. But I'm not cutting mine until you can cut yours."

We used to share so much. When she was little, we called them "Mommy and Bunny days" - hours spent together, just the two of us. As she got older, I wasn't called "Mommy" anymore but we our common passions remained. Trips to Starbucks to talk about life or work on whatever stories we were currently writing. Singing Hamilton or any other favorite songs. Making (and then eating) the perfect quesadilla. Our love of all things fuzzy, shiny, pink and cute. Binge watching Gilmore Girls or Glee. Snuggling Charlie or singing to Tuck.

But that is alternate universe "Mommy and Bunny". These days, the list of things we share is much shorter.

We still giggle together over the latest Charlie and Tuck antics in our one hour together each week.

We share the love of reading - she has a lot of time to read these days and thankfully most of the books she's read so far, I've also read and we can talk about the characters.

And we both need a haircut.

If I could take her place I would. She's only 13. She shouldn't have to carry this load alone. I am powerless to take this burden from her. But in my own overwhelming desire to share something with "my best friend bunnysis", my hair can grow out just as awkwardly as hers. A physical manifestation of the passage of time.

You know, it's the closest thing to a complaint I've heard from her since this whole thing started. She has never once said a negative statement about the isolation, the food, the boredom, the restrictions or anything else she is experiencing. But there is something so real about needing a haircut. A perpetual reminder that of what she can't have - an embodiment of her incarceration.

It's a strange act of solidarity - but I need this. I need to feel like I am doing this with her. That she isn't truly alone.

Someday we will go get haircuts.....and start a new list of things we share.....