Forensic — Jennifer Pritchard Studio

I got my haircut today and asked to take the discarded, swept-up remnants with me. When I got home, I put them in a vintage cloisoneé dish next to the paperweight I made of myself in kindergarten on my studio table as proof I am still growing. I sat and looked at the pair, hair now the color of dirty snow, and decided to make a photo as evidence, forensic proof that I am still growing in the winter of my life. I remember growing up, and it hurt – bones aching from the challenge. One year, I grew 13 inches in 12 months, and my father threatened to spray me with weed killer. Nothing fit. Nothing fits now, and a lifetime has passed. Maybe that is just the way it is. Nothing ever quite fits like you think it is supposed to. You are constantly tugging, adjusting, and twisting some waistband or collar to find that comfortable spot. Maybe that is all this is, learning to fit in, be comfortable, in whatever this is.