D.M.C.

She loved the ways that hair and fabric fall.
Arranging themselves neatly or in disarray as they settle, it settled her soul to watch them flutter. Her long, full skirt and her fine, mouse-brown locks were in the wind.
He had loved her hair. She'd grown it long, as long as she could for him, and he had often offered comment when the light shone upon it, reworking its lackluster tones to reveal subtle hints of gold and glints of copper, like value hidden in a field of wheat. But she stood now in no such fertile field. She stood at the edge of a hill in a warm wind, surrounded by dry grasses, so easily swayed, so easily killed. Fragile. She crossed her arms over her waist and hugged her hips. She closed her eyes as she felt the wind dying down, as her hair and her skirt grew still while the world around her softened, and everything inside her died. She seemed fated to stand this way forever, a hardened woman encased in a rose-colored subsistence.
She understood the way the strips of fabric fell as she cut them away. The yards fell from her quivering as her heart quivered - as her resolve quivered when they had met, accepting gravity's pull with the little effort that seemed the exact opposite of that which had to be mustered to forget him.

But then, that was unfair. how could she forget him? she still had his child.

She treasured the way the hair fell from her shoulders, though she quickly gathered the jagged chunks in her hands. Precious to her, part of her - once a token of love, now shorn in forgetful, painful bliss. It was taken from her so easily: that which she exhausted her effort to keep. She was struck with the reality of the fact that she could spend what seemed an eternity making something her own, and in one moment, in one stroke, see it become so entirely other - estranged from her. Forever.
Naturally, she could always recall what she was like before. She had the pictures.
The contents of her day having been carried out, she stood purposefully under a stream of water: pounding, cleansing, ridding her of the residue of her torturous errands. Tugging her hands through her hair, she was acutely aware of the freshness of its absence. She felt lighter somehow, in the worst way possible.
And she went on her way, in a new dress and a haircut.
She wore them well.