As I looked into the mirror I repeated “hair holds memories”. I could see in my reflection in the glass. My cold shaky, trembling hands holding my once long auburn dead hair that I cut off from my own impulse. I had begun to laugh aloud, watching my tears roll down my freckled cheeks that were once rosy now were as pale as the moon, taking a deep shallow breath in.
My dad told me to keep my hair the way it was. I refused, the ends were dead, split, broken. How would they grow? “Why was I urging them to grow?” I urged myself to reflect.
“Hair holds memories, but I’m haunted by them,” I cried. “Why was it so hard to let go?” It wasn’t healthy. I pushed myself after moments of introspection, and thought, “Sometimes unhealthy was comfortable, but comfortable allowed my hair to die.” I cut it off, so I could not stay stagnated anymore.
“Hair holds memories” I tried to say confidently, trying to justify my impulses. As I looked in the mirror, I was not myself, but that was the beauty; my reflection was unrecognizable; I could not recognize who I was. I started to feel like I was starting anew, taking another deep breath in.
Suddenly, I started to hear a voice in the hallway, growing progressively louder almost haunting me. It was a familiar one, almost my own voice, but slightly higher pitch. I slowly opened the door of my bathroom, and to my surprise I saw myself at sixteen, acne-ridden, anxious and braced-faced, sitting in the hallway of my childhood home curled up in a hunched over position. Her long auburn hair covered her freckled pale face, and her blue eyes were filled with terror as she looked shocked, too stunned to look back at me.
I reached my hand down as I got to her level and softly gazed into her tear filed confused eyes. Staring sadly back at me with a glossy, faded gaze she began to sob profusely as her eyes dropped to the sharp kitchen scissors in my hands.
I smiled, laughed, and slowly wiped away my own sixteen-year-old self’s tears. “Why would you cut your hair? You were so beautiful with it long. I’m confused… What has happened to us?” she was barely able to mutter out these questions in a panicked tone.
I responded, “Hair holds memories, that’s why I cut it off. Without constantly evolving we are nothing. Without acknowledging and growing from memories, what are they for? My hair reminded me of how ignorant I was about the act of change, and how fearful I was of it. Though I realize changing for others is vain, I have come to terms that this is for me, and not for the approval of others who want to see my ‘beauty’. This change is for myself, for my hair is mine, and no one can tell me what to do with it. Growth takes courage and awareness, cutting my hair allowed me to grow, and start anew. Therefore, it needed to be done. I know you are not ready for change, but it is necessary.”
Gradually I could hear the echoing of creeks coming up from the stairs disappearing that led to the hallway getting louder. To my surprise my father appeared, and his face dropped when he saw my hair he gently walked over and took the scissors out of my hands. Looking into my eyes as gently as he could he says, “It is okay.” as his eyes filled with tears and streamed down his freckled, ghostly pale face. “Did you hear her again, what did she tell you? Whatever she said, you’re safe now. Shes not real.” When my dad saw my hair, he was not pleased. Though In this moment, I had never felt so content with myself. For the first time I allowed myself to make a conscious decision on my own, even if the voice of my sixteen-year-old self could not understand it, and even if she was not real, I had evolved. Looking once more into the mirror before my dad pulled me away, I could see my uneven short hair, it suited and framed my round face well, it was imperfect and choppy. I could see myself clearly, for the first time again. Once more letting out tears more, this time form relief, and not form grief.
