Still love. In its many forms.

In Fall of 2009 I learned that my friend had been diagnosed with ovarian cancer. There wasn't much I could do for her—I could visit her in San Francisco, sit with her, talk with her, listen to her. But I wasn't a doctor, and I wasn't going to be able to cure her illness. I was powerless. And I hated the feeling.

But I'd gotten into the habit of donating my hair every time it got long enough, since I figured that, given my family history, it was probably not a bad idea to have some karma saved up. So when I learned about my friend (and when I figured out that I could do so little for her) I thought—well, even if I can't help her directly, maybe I can help someone else instead.

The only problem was, my hair was only just barely long enough to cut off the length I needed to donate it. But I figured, hey, hair grows back—and mine particularly fast. So I went to the nearest Fantastic Sams and got my hair buzzed off.

On Monday when I showed up to campus with my new 'do, people reacted. "Oh my goodness, what happened?!" "You look so different!" "It's so short!" What do you mean, what happened? I cut my hair. And yes, it's short—get over it. Do I really have to tell everyone I meet that I cut off my hair because I felt like there was nothing else I could do to help my friend?

A week or two later, I went to visit Rosemary, to talk about something silly or mundane, like qualifying. I walked into her office and she offered me a seat. We started talking, about...I don't even remember what now. But about a minute into our conversation, she stopped.

"There's something different about you."

"Oh? Um...maybe because I got my hair cut?"

"Oh, yes! That's what it is. You got your hair cut."

Yes. I got my haircut. That's all it was. It wasn't anything dramatic, I didn't grow a third ear, my brain still functioned. And I admit, there had been a point a few days after the haircut, when I looked into the mirror and thought, "Wow, I look ugly." I hated comparing myself to the norm that (healthy, feminine) women were supposed to have long, beautifully flowing locks. And I hated being so shallow about something that would grow back soon enough, when my friend and her partner were going through the toughest time of their lives.

So when Rosemary said that to me—when she unwittingly reassured me that all I had done was cut my hair, when so many others were talking about how drastic the change was—I felt reassured. I got a haircut. It was short, but my hair would grow back. And while I might feel powerless in the face of cancer, I had thought of my friend and acted, albeit in a very small way. I loved my friend, and that was all that mattered.

Thank you for putting that into perspective for me, Rosemary. Hearing everyone's remembrances of you yesterday reminded me of that incident. And it reminded me of all the forms love can take, however large or small. And it reminded me of what I have been so sure of for nearly a year, that there is someone I love who loves me, and that I couldn't fly to him fast enough, to be with him. Thank you for that, Rosemary.