The Q life Grief Journey

I have only been to the beauty shop twice since Quinten passed away.

And both times, it was just to trim my bangs.

I can’t bring myself to cut the length. I can’t bring myself to try a new style. I sit in the chair, look at myself in the mirror, and say, “Just a trim.” Nothing more.

It isn’t about the hair.

It’s about him.

Quinten always made a big deal when I went to the beauty shop. Not on the day I came home. Not quietly, just between us. He would wait until we were around people.

At his celebration of life luncheon, of all places, he made a point to tell everyone there, “My mom got her hair cut for today. Doesn’t it look nice?”

I remember feeling slightly embarrassed. A little confused. Why did he always feel the need to announce it like that?

But that was just Quinten.

He noticed things. He celebrated small efforts. He made ordinary moments feel worthy of applause.

And now… I miss it terribly.

Who is going to make a big deal about me going to the beauty shop?

Who is going to look at me across the room and proudly announce something that most people wouldn’t even notice?

It seems like such a small thing. So ordinary. So insignificant.

But grief has a way of magnifying the small things.

It isn’t the haircut I miss.

It’s the way he saw me.

It’s the way he made sure others saw me, too.

It’s the pride in his voice. The affection in the way he said it. The simple, childlike joy of pointing out something he thought was special.

I know this isn’t the norm. Most grown sons don’t make public announcements about their mother’s haircut.

But now that Quinten is gone, I wish it were.

I wish every mother had a son who noticed.

I wish every small effort was celebrated.

I wish someone would make a big deal about the ordinary things again.

So for now, I keep my hair long.

Not because I’m afraid of change.

But because I’m still holding onto the version of me that he so proudly introduced to the room.

And maybe one day, when I’m ready, I’ll cut it.

And even if no one announces it, I’ll hear his voice in my heart:

“My mom got her hair cut. Doesn’t it look nice?”

And I’ll smile.

Because love doesn’t stop noticing.

Even when the room is quiet.