Haircuts and lies

Today I needed to get my hair cut.
I could have let it go, getting longer and more unruly. There comes a point in hair neglect where it stops looking worse each day. It levels off.
I hate my hair. Then I love my hair. Mostly I hate it. I would shave it all off but then I'd have to spend more time keeping it away by shaving. That would be giving it more attention than it is worth. Its only hair. Its also the only thing about me I have ever cried about. I am thinking about crying now.
My hair cut is cute. Its a short stacked a line bob with bangs. The auburn tones bring out the rust color of my eyes. The color gives me constant grief. It is a beautiful color. I know women pay lots of money to get hair my color. But it is the same color my mother's hair was once. That was before she lost her mind completely. One summer the color leeched entirely from her hair. It became an old yellowed newspaper kind of blond. I look at my lovely hair and all I see when I think of me is my mother. If I disassociate, which I seem to be able to do at will, I notice how pretty it is. I notice the way my cheekbones actually jut out beside my ears. I see good, clear eyes with only a little bit of purple undertones beneath them.
The craziest thing is that I love the way I look. I love the softness of my skin and the substantialness of my frame. I am sturdy. I am distinctive. When I was growing up the kids in my schools always thought I looked like an exchange student, maybe from France, maybe Italy or Russia.
At 41, I think I am aging well, except for this constant watch for signs that my mother is emerging from my skin. To be fair, it isn't a new fear. I was terrified of it when my oldest was small. I was worried I'd be cruel or hard or neglectful of her. I cared so much for her I couldn't invest myself or my heart into her. I was afraid that something would happen to take her away from me. The anxiety didn't dissapate until I had her sister. Then it came back in torrents. My mother had two daughters. Was I turning into her?
Nowadays I don't worry too much about going crazy. I figure it may happen. Much therapy has reinforced that I will not act out the same kind of crazy my mother did. I think that should it happen, it would be something less destructive toward my children. The fact that the youngest is almost 14 bears that theory out. She seems close to fine. The thing that worries me is how surprised and shocked I am to look in the mirror and identify my reflection as someone besides myself. I never expect to see my mother and it scares me that at my adult age I her, even though I've built my life to protect myself from her.
A couple of therapists I've seen in the course of becoming safe have diagnosed me with PTSD. And anxiety. Of course. Can't have one without the other.
I wonder how many more decades before it goes away. I figure I get bored with everything eventually, so why not this? What hold does it have over me?
I wish, when I think about it for very long, that my mother was dead. Blocking her out of my life hasn't been enough. I think about the day I learn she died, really died, and I think that will be the day that I really start living. I didn't really know how much like my hair, I love and hate her. Guess I will think about it some more.