Reddit Stories - AGREED with my DECEASED MOTHER that I would let my hair grow long

Episode Date: July 19, 2025

#redditstories #askreddit #aita #hairgoals #familyagreement #longhairdontcare #motherlyadvice #hairjourneySummary: I had an agreement with my late mother to grow my hair long. Now, I'm conflicted about keeping my promise or cutting it short for a change. It's a dilemma between honoring her wishes and embracing a new look.Tags: redditstories, askreddit, reddit, aita, tifu, hairgoals, familyagreement, longhairdontcare, motherlyadvice, hairjourney, dilemma, promisekeeping, haircutdilemma, honoringagreement, newlook, personalstyle, familytradition, haircare, decisionmaking, emotionalconflictBecome a supporter of this podcast: https://www.spreaker.com/podcast/reddit-stories--6237355/support.

I hope you enjoy this story. Agreed with my deceased mother that I would let my hair grow long in solidarity after she shaved her own during my battle with illness. But now my father's recent partner is encouraging me to do the same. Cut it for her wedding photos. I never thought I'd be writing something like this on unread, but here I am at 2 a.m., unable to sleep, trying to make sense of everything that's happened. This might be long, so bear with me.

Five years ago, when I was 17, my life changed permanently. It started with what I thought was just a persistent cold that wouldn't go away. My mom kept insisting we go see our doctor again, even though I'd already been twice and was told it was nothing serious. That third visit changed everything. Blood tests, then more blood tests, then specialists, and finally the diagnosis. Stage 3 Hodgkin's lymphoma. aggressive advanced the oncologist spoke with clinical detachment about treatment protocols and survival rates while my mom squeezed my hands so hard it hurt i was given exactly one week to get my

affairs in order before starting intensive chemotherapy the night before my first chemo session i stood in front of my bathroom mirror for hours i had these long dark waves that went halfway down my back. Everyone always commented on my hair. It was my thing, I guess. I knew it was going to fall out. The doctors had been very clear about that, but knowing and experiencing are different things. I thought about cutting it short beforehand to make the transition less dramatic, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. Two weeks into treatment, it started coming out in clumps on my pillow, in the shower, in my hands whenever I ran my fingers through it. It was falling out unevenly, making me look diseased in the most visible way possible. I locked myself in the

bathroom and sobbed. Not even about the cancer really, but about my hair. How vain is that? But it felt like the physical manifestation of everything being taken from me piece by piece. My mom knocked on the door for almost 20 minutes before I let her in. When I finally did, she had a set of electric clippers in her hand. Without saying anything, she plugged them in, handed them to me, and knelt down on the bathroom floor. Me first, then you, she said. I didn't understand at first, but then it clicked. She was going to shave her head too.

I tried to talk her out of it. Her hair was even longer than mine, this beautiful Auburn color that she'd always worn long. But she was adamant. We'll grow it back together when this is over, she promised. This is just temporary. So I shaved her head first, and then she shaved mine. We took a ridiculous selfie afterward, both of us bawled, trying to smile through the tears. She printed it and taped it to my mirror with a note, hair grows back.

You just focus on growing stronger. The treatments were brutal. I won't detail every aspect of chemotherapy here, but it's nothing like what they show in movies. It's not just feeling a little tired or throwing up once. It's your entire body turning against you, forgetting how to function properly. I spent more time in the hospital than at home. My mom slept in a chair beside my bed for days at a time, working remotely on her laptop when I was asleep, always there when I opened my eyes.

For months into my treatment, my mom caught a cold. But with my immune system decimated by chemo, we had to be careful. She stayed home for a few days while my dad took over hospital duty. When her cold didn't improve after a week, she finally went to the doctor. It wasn't a cold. It was pneumonia, and it had already progressed significantly because she'd ignored her own symptoms while taking care of me. They admitted her immediately.

I was in one wing of the hospital, she was in another. My dad ran back and forth between us, looking more haggard each day. Three weeks later, while I was hooked up to my chemo four, a team of doctors came to speak with me, not my regular oncology team, but different doctors I hadn't seen before. They told me my mother's condition had deteriorated rapidly. Her immune system had been compromised too, not from cancer treatment, but from exhaustion, stress, and neglecting her own health. The pneumonia had developed complications. They were moving her to intensive care. I demanded to see her. The doctors refused initially, saying I was too vulnerable to infection to leave the

oncology floor. I ripped out my four. Alarms went off. Nurses rushed in. Eventually, my oncologist intervened and arranged for me to visit my mom in ICU with extreme precautions, mask, gloves, gown, the works. She was intubated by the time I got there. Unresponsive. Her head still mostly bald with just a thin layer of fuzzy new growth. Nowhere near the long Auburn waves she was supposed to grow back with me. My dad stood by the window, staring out, his shoulders shaking silently. I made a promise to her right there, I promised that I would grow my hair for both of us. That I would let it grow and grow until it reached my feet if I had to. That I would carry this visible reminder of her sacrifice with me always. She died three days

later. I wasn't there when it happened. I was having emergency treatment for an infection my own. They told me afterward that it was peaceful, that she didn't suffer in the end. I don't know if that's true or if it's just what they tell teenagers who lose their mothers to make them feel better. I finished my treatment four months later. Complete remission, the doctor said. A miracle, given how advanced my cancer had been. Everyone celebrated. Everyone except me and my dad. We went home to an empty house where my mom's coffee mug still sat on the kitchen counter, lipstick stain and all. Dad couldn't bring himself to wash it for months.

True to my promise, I let my hair grow. Through the awkward fuzzy stage, through the uneven patches, through everything. It's been five years now. My hair reaches my lower back, thick, healthy, a visible testament to survival and remembrance. Sometimes I catch my dad looking at it with this expression I can't quite name, something between pride and unbearable sadness. Life went on, as it cruelly does. Dad retreated into himself for a long time. He went to work, came home, heated up whatever casserole the neighbors had dropped off that week, and disappeared into the den with a bottle of whiskey. We existed in parallel for almost two years, rarely talking about anything meaningful, certainly never talking about mom. Then about eight months ago, he met

Sarah. They were introduced by his co-worker at some company function. Sarah works in human resources at a different firm. She's in her mid-40s, divorced, with a daughter named Emma who's about my age, 19 or so. When dad first mentioned Sarah, I was actually relieved. He seemed less hollow, started eating regular meals again, even cleaned out the garage one weekend. When I finally met Sarah three months into their relationship, she seemed nice enough. Careful. respectful. She didn't try to act like my mother or force any kind of instant bond. She asked questions about my studies, my friends, my plans for the future. Normal things. Emma was quieter, kept to herself mostly. She has this pinned straight blonde hair that she

wears in a perfect shoulder-length bob. She's studying fashion marketing or something. We didn't talk much, but it wasn't hostile, just awkward in that way blending families always is. Dad proposed to Sarah last month. It was quick, but at his age, I guess people don't see the point in waiting. The wedding is set for this summer. I was genuinely happy for him, or at least, I was trying to be. Mom would have wanted him to find someone. I'm sure of that.

Everything was fine until last weekend. Sarah invited me over to her home discuss wedding details. I assumed we'd be talking about bridesmaid's dresses or something similarly benign. Emma was there too, sitting at the kitchen island flipping through bridal magazines. Sarah made tea, set out some cookies, and then very directly asked me if I would cut my hair for the wedding. I thought I'd misheard her at first. But no, she was completely serious. She explained that all the bridesmaids were planning to wear identical updose, and my hair was

problematically long for the stylist to work with. She said something about how my hair would overwhelm the visual symmetry of the bridal party photos. Emma kept her eyes on the magazine, but I could see her nodding slightly. I explained, as calmly as I could, why my hair was long. What it represented. The promise I'd made. Sarah listened, or at least pretended to, and then said something that made Abbott mad, don't you think your mom would want you to move on by now? She wouldn't want you stuck in the past like this. Sometimes cutting your hair is just cutting your hair,

it doesn't have to be this big symbolic thing. I sat there in shock. This woman who had never met my mother was telling me what she would have wanted. Telling me that my promise, the one thing I had left connecting me to her, was just me being stuck in the past. Then she went further, I'm not trying to replace your mother, but I'm going to be your stepmother.

This is supposed to be the happiest day of my life. Is a haircut really too much to ask? For one day? For family harmony? I didn't say anything. I just got up and left. Sarah called after me, saying I was being childish and dramatic. By the time I got home, she had already called my dad.

He was waiting for me, looking tired and conflicted. Maybe you could just consider it, he said quietly. Just this once. Just for the wedding. It would mean a lot to Sarah, and it would make things easier for everyone. Easier for everyone or easier for you? I asked. He didn't answer that.

Instead, he said, you're making this harder than it needs to be. Since then, I've received messages from my aunt, dad's sister, two cousins, and even my grandmother, all suggesting I should compromise on this hair issue to welcome Sarah into the family properly. Apparently, Sarah has been making phone calls. The only person who hasn't tried to convince me to cut my hair is my best friend Jess, who also survived cancer in high school. She gets it. She said, promises to the dead matter more than wedding photos.

But now I'm sitting here, second-guessing myself. Am I being unreasonable? Is this just hair? Am I clinging to the past in an unhealthy way? Or is this a boundary I need to maintain? I don't know anymore. But typing this out has helped somehow. If you've read this far, thanks for listening to a stranger ramble about hair and death and stepmothers.

Update 1 It's been a month since my original post, and I wanted to update for those who sent messages asking how things were going. First, thank you to everyone who commented and messaged. I read everything, even though I didn't respond to most of it. It helped to know I wasn't completely off base in my feelings. Things have gotten worse, not better. Three days after my last post, my cousin Ellie texted me screenshots of a group chat I didn't know existed. Sarah had created it, adding various members of my family, aunts, uncles, cousins,

even my dad's parents, but specifically excluding me. The chat was titled Wedding Planning and Her Chat. family concerns. The screenshots showed Sarah giving her version of our conversation about my hair, painting herself as the victim of my inflexibility and refusal to accept new family dynamics. She told everyone I was deliberately trying to make her feel insecure because she had thin, fine hair that couldn't compete with mine. She wrote things like, I'm trying so hard to blend our families, but, my name, seems determined to keep us as outsiders. The responses from my family were what hurt the most. People who had known me my entire life, who had visited me in the hospital

during cancer treatment, who had attended my mother's funeral, they were all sympathizing with Sarah. My grandmother wrote, She's always been stubborn like her mother. My aunt suggested that trauma has made her a bit self-centered. My uncle straight up said I needed therapy to let go of the past. Ellie sent the screenshots because she thought I should know what was being said, but even she included a message saying, maybe consider a compromise. This seems to be getting out of hand. I was still processing this when my dad showed up

at my apartment unannounced the next day. He was carrying a cardboard box. He didn't say much, just handed me the box and sat down heavily on my couch. Inside were old photographs. I looked up at my dad, confused. What is this? I just thought you should see these, he said.

said. His voice was flat, emotionless in that way it gets when he's trying not to cry. I thought it might help you think about what your mom would really want right now. She would want me to keep my promise to her, I said. He shook his head slightly. She wouldn't want you to cause a rift in the family over hair. She was never that petty. That word, petty, it burned. As if honoring a deathbed promise was somehow petty. I went to my bedroom without a saying anything else. From the bottom drawer of my desk, I pulled out one of the journals I kept during treatment. I found the entry I was looking for, dated a few days after Mom shaved her head, and brought it back to the living room. I handed it to my dad, opened to the relevant page.

In my shaky 17-year-old handwriting, I had written. Mom shaved her head for me today. She says we'll grow our hair back together when this is over. I'm scared I won't make it that far, but she's so sure. She keeps talking about how we'll go to the salon together for fancy treatments once my hair starts growing back. She made me promise that even if I feel like giving up, I'll keep fighting so we can have matching long hair again someday. I promised her I would. Dad read it, his hands trembling slightly. While he was reading, I pulled up the screenshots Ellie had sent me and showed him additional ones she'd forwarded later, direct messages between Sarah and Emma that someone had screenshot and shared in the family chat.

Dad read these messages silently. Then he stood up, gathered the photos back into the box, and left without another word. He didn't argue anymore or tried to convince me. He just left. I haven't heard from him directly since that day. Communication has been through text messages only, and those have been brief and practical. Will you be at Sunday dinner? Can you drop off the lawnmower you borrowed?

Nothing about the wedding, nothing about Sarah, nothing about my hair. The family group chat screenshots keep coming from Ellie, though the tone has shifted from how do we convince her to she's obviously not a team player. Sarah has started discussing contingency plans for the wedding, having me stand in the back row for photos, having my hair professionally styled, her words, into something that would be less conspicuous, or just not having me as a bridesmaid at all. Yesterday, Ellie sent me a message Sarah wrote to the group. At this point, I'm starting to wonder if my name should even attend.

This is supposed to be a celebration, not a memorial service. Her attachment to her dead mother's wishes is casting a shadow over everything. No one in the family chat objected to this statement. Not one person. I've started avoiding family gatherings. I've stopped answering calls from relatives. says I should stand my ground, but it's getting harder when it feels like I'm standing alone. The wedding is still a month away. I don't know how this ends, but I know it doesn't end with me

cutting my hair. Update 2. It's been another month, and things have taken a turn I didn't expect. Two weeks after my last update, I got a text from my dad asking if we could meet at the neighborhood park where we used to go when I was a kid. I agreed. When I arrived, he was already there. sitting on one of the benches by the duck pond. He looked older somehow, more gray at his temples than I remembered seeing before. We sat in silence for several minutes before he spoke. The wedding's been postponed, he said finally, indefinitely. I didn't know how to respond to that, so I just waited. After I saw those messages, he continued, staring out at the pond, I started paying more attention, started noticing things I'd been ignoring.

He told me that he'd confronted Sarah about the messages, and she tried to play it off as wedding stress and claimed she was just trying to help Emma with her confidence issues. He said he might have even believed her if that had been the end of it. But then I found boxes in the garage, he said. Boxes of your mom's things that I thought were still in the house. Photo albums, her recipe books, the ceramic bowl she made in that pottery class, her reading glasses. Just personal things.

Things that were part of our daily life. Sarah had packed them all up. When I asked her about it, she said she was just helping me move forward and making space for new memories. His voice cracked on the last few words. She was erasing my mother, I said quietly. Dad nodded. It wasn't about your hair. It was never about your hair.

He rubbed his face with his hands. It was about removing any trace of her from our lives. And I almost let it happen. We sat there for a while longer, watching a family feeding the ducks, before he spoke again. I'm sorry, he said. I should have listened to you. I should have seen what was happening. The postponed wedding quickly turned into a cancelled wedding.

Sarah told everyone it was mutual, but from what dad said, it was very one-sided. Once he started looking more critically at her behavior, he couldn't unsee the pattern. She had been strategically isolating him from memories of Mom and for me, his strongest connection to Mom. The family chat dissolved into chaos when the cancellation was announced. Sarah told everyone it was because Dad couldn't move on from his past and I was emotionally manipulating him. Some relatives took her side, saying Dad was making a mistake.

Others finally started questioning her narrative, especially after my Aunt Martha, mom's sister, got involved and started asking pointed questions about why Sarah was so fixated on my hair in the first place. Three days after the park conversation, I received a direct message from Emma. I almost didn't open it, but curiosity won out. I want to apologize, this whole situation got so out of control, and I played a part in it. My mom has always been obsessed with appearances. My whole life has been about looking perfect, having the right clothes, the right hair, fitting her image of what a daughter should be. When she saw your hair, it became this fixation for her.

She kept saying how it would throw off all the wedding photos, how people would look at you instead of her, how my hair looked thin and lifeless in comparison. She went on to explain that her mother had been commenting on her appearance her entire life, making her feel inadequate, using her insecurities to manipulate her. She made me resent you when I barely knew you. She's good at finding people's weak spots and exploiting them. I'm not using that as an excuse, I still participated and I'm sorry for that. But I wanted you to know the bigger picture.

Emma and I exchanged a few more messages after that. Not friendly exactly, but civil. Understanding. We talked about what it's like to be used as a pawn in someone else's game. We didn't become instant step-sisters or business. best friends, but we stopped being antagonists. Sarah, meanwhile, has been telling anyone who will listen that our family is dysfunctional and stuck in the past, that we need therapy and can't move forward. She's reached out to several relatives trying to get them to speak to dad on her

behalf, but most have stopped engaging with her altogether. One unexpected outcome of all this is that I've been spending more time with my dad lately. We're not back to normal, I'm not sure what normal even looks like for us anymore, but we're talking, not just exchanging pleasantries. Last week, he asked if he could take a picture of my hair. When I asked why, he said, because your mom would be proud of how it turned out. And so am I, Update 3. It's been about three weeks since my last update. Things have stabilized somewhat, though normal still feels like a distant concept. A week after the wedding was officially canceled, my dad asked if we could have together. Over pasta that neither of us did more than push around our plates, he tried to explain

how things had gotten so off track. When your mom died, he began, setting down his fork, I didn't think I would survive it. Not just emotionally, I mean literally. I couldn't eat, couldn't sleep, could barely remember to breathe. The only thing that kept me functioning at all was knowing you needed me. He explained that after my treatment ended and I moved into my own apartment for college, he fell apart completely, took a leave of absence from work, barely left the house for weeks at a time. When I met Sarah, he said, it was like suddenly being able to breathe again. She was organized, practical, decisive, all the things I couldn't manage to be anymore. She handled everything. Paid bills I'd been ignoring. Called repairment.

for things I'd let break. Made actual meals instead of the cereal I'd been living on. I felt like I was rejoining the human race. He admitted that he saw the red flags, her subtle criticisms of how the house was decorated. By mom, her suggestions that certain photographs be moved to less prominent places, her comments about how some people never move on but he ignored them because he was terrified of going back to that dark place he'd been in before her.

I knew she was trying to erase your mother, he said, on some level, I knew. But I told myself it was normal, that new partners always want to put their own stamp on things. I told myself it was healthy to pack away some of the reminders. I told myself a lot of things so I wouldn't have to face losing someone again, even if that someone was just a relationship that was bad for me. He said that when the conflict about my hair began, he defaulted to what had become his standard operating procedure, keeps Sarah happy at all costs. He pushed me to give in because it was easier than standing up to her, easier than risking the loss of this lifeline he'd come to depend on.

I'm not proud of it, he said. I put my need for stability above your need for support. Above your promise to your mother, my wife. His eyes filled with tears. I failed both of you. I didn't forgive him immediately. The hurt was still too raw for that. But I did reach across the table and put my hand,

over his, and we sat like that for a long time. He told me he started seeing a therapist. Not couples counseling with Sarah, as she had apparently suggested as a last-ditch effort to salvage the relationship, but individual therapy to work through his grief and dependency issues. He's only had two sessions so far, but he said it's already helping him see how he's been using relationships as a crutch rather than dealing with his pain. Emma moved out of Sarah's house last week. She didn't contact me directly about it, but she did post on social media that she was starting fresh and learning to define myself on my own terms.

She's staying with her father now, from what I can gather. I sent her a brief message wishing her well, and she responded with equal brevity but seeming sincerity. Dad and I have talked about taking a trip together later this year to scatter some of mom's ashes at the beach where we took our last family vacation. We haven't made concrete plans yet. We're both still finding our footing in this new version of our relationship, but the conversation itself felt like progress.

Final update. It's been six months since this all began, and nearly three months since my last update. This will probably be my final post on the matter, not because everything is resolved, but because life has shifted into a new pattern that feels, if not normal, at least sustainable. Sarah and my father have had no contact for over two months now.

The last interaction came when she appeared unannounced at our house. I've temporarily moved back in with Dad while my apartment building undergoes major renovations, to collect a box of belongings she'd left behind. Dad was at work, so I was the one who had to deal with her. She barely looked at me as I handed over the box Dad had packed weeks earlier. As she turned to leave, she paused. I wasn't trying to replace your mother, you know, she said, not turning around. I was just trying to carve out space for myself.

By erasing her, I replied. She shook her head slightly. You wouldn't understand. You've never had to compete with a ghost. Then she walked to her car without looking back. That brief exchange has stayed with me. So in her mind, she wasn't the villain. She was just fighting for her place.

So this is where I leave this chronicle. Thank you to those who followed this saga, who offered support and insight. Writing it out here helped more than you know. Sometimes being witnessed is the most healing thing of all.