The frayed bow hair I can't bring myself to replace

There's a bundle of bow hairs that snapped about a month ago, and I've left them dangling. Every time I tighten the bow, I catch them in the corner of my eye. I know it's inefficient, maybe even bad for the sound, but something about their presence — a conversation with impermanence — feels more honest than a fresh, perfect set would. I rehair instruments for a living, and yet I've left my own in this state. It's not laziness; it's a kind of ritual. I'm not sure what I'm trying to preserve, but the metaphor is spilling into everything else I do.