𝑰𝑵𝑲 • 𝑻𝒆𝒘𝒌𝒆𝒔𝒃𝒖𝒓𝒚 / 𝑳𝒐𝒖𝒊𝒔 𝑷𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒓𝒊𝒅𝒈𝒆

Orbit's End

I recall feeling powerful. A sense of control surging through my fingertips, down my forearm all the way to my chest. A rush of superiority, of meaningful influence and physical decision. I had made a choice, and then acted on it.

I knew I should put down the scissors. A part of me had been trying to get myself to put them down from the moment I picked them up. But once they were in my hands, the impulse to use them was far too strong too withstand.

Recreational drugs had never been a part of my life. I'd rarely seen other use them, and never participated myself. But that feeling of getting hooked onto something, and not being able to stop until you've done all that could be done. That's what I imagine addiction to feel like.

I had started just above my shoulder. A quick cut, a handful of hair to get myself started. Like jumping into cold water, do it quickly and you won't feel it; only you will, and it will feel horrible. But you'll get over it, because it's been done, and there's no taking it back.

A principle which looking back, I realize applies to many aspects of my life.

Once I'd cut all the way around, large clumps of hair lying on the bathroom floor, I looked at myself in the mirror. My hair hadn't been that short since I was a child, since I'd gotten a pinecone tangled in it while running through the woods. And rather than pry it out piece by piece, mum had decided that it was time for a new look.

She'd hated it, hence why it had never been that short again. But I was too young to remember how it looked, how it felt not to carry the weight of my curls on my back, through cold winters and unbearable summer heat. But mum wasn't here to tell me I'd regret it, and the tempting blades in my left hand kept telling me I wouldn't.

I felt like I looked more mature, and like less of a mess. My image became that of someone who valued convenience. The mirror showed me someone who I had never been before, an 'I have short hair because it's less of a hassle' kind of person.

But it was uneven, so I kept cutting.

Another reason I had kept the long hair was for the engagement, or rather, the wedding. Jonathan used to tell me how much he liked my long hair. He'd describe how it made me look innocent, untouched; words which evidently sent an uncomfortable and guilty chill through my body.

He'd told me he wanted it long for the ceremony, so that I could wear it up the way a woman does, not a girl. But I was a girl, an adolescent, a seventeen year old with a pair of blunt kitchen scissors. And I could do with them what I damn well pleased.

Fuck Jonathan.

By the time I put them down, the scissors had done far more than I had originally intended for them to do. And I had cut off far more than I had originally intended to lose. In fact, I hadn't really intended to lose any at all, and had carried out the entire act while blind with need.

In the end, the ends of my hair fell just below my jaw, a length which made me feel rather boyish. But that was of no concern. Boys get to have all the fun anyways.

I twirled it around my index and combed my finger from root to term, ruffling it occasionally to picture how it would look in a windy day. Tucking it behind my ears, I observed myself once more. My long, heavy hair was no longer felt against my back, the reason for which I could clearly see, but for some reason was unable to process. I knew it was gone, but my mind took a little bit longer to realise it.

I wondered what T would think of it. I thought he might like it, the way it framed my face exposed my nape. But I also considered that he could hate it, mourn the loss of the curls he had found such entertainment in fiddling with. The loss of Florence as he had known her.