The Last Good Hair Day

Marion stared at the silver strand in her bathroom mirror, plucking it before she could think better of it. Another one. At forty-three, she'd thought she'd make peace with aging, but watching her father wither in hospice had changed everything. His **hair** had been the first to go, then his dignity, then finally his will to live.

"The market's still a **bull**, Marion," her boss had said yesterday, leaning in too close at the happy hour. His breath smelled of expensive scotch and entitlement. "But you're looking tired. Maybe take some personal time?"

Translation: You're not hungry enough anymore.

Now she stood in her kitchen at 2 AM, staring at a plastic container of wilted **spinach** she'd forgotten to eat. The expiration date read February—three months ago. Everything in her life was decaying while she chased promotions that felt increasingly hollow.

She found herself at the 24-hour gym, slipping into the cold pool. **Swimming** had been her father's exercise, his meditation, his church. As she glided through the water, stroke after stroke, she understood why. The world went silent. No emails, no expectations, no gradual loss of everything that made her herself.

The lifeguard, a college student with tired eyes, watched her from the chair. Marion wondered if he saw what she was actually doing: not exercising, but learning how to drown without dying.

She climbed out, water dripping onto the concrete. In the harsh fluorescent lights, she caught her reflection—wet hair plastered to her skull, eyes red from chlorine and lack of sleep, looking nothing like the woman who'd fought her way to the corner office.

Marion laughed, a dry sound that echoed off the tiles. Tomorrow she'd delete the unread emails. Tomorrow she'd call her mother. Tomorrow she'd maybe finally figure out what she wanted when she wasn't terrified of disappearing.

But tonight, she'd go home and throw out the spinach.