"Why'd you cut your long pretty hair?" They'll ask. Curling their "t"'s to make the startling question less offensive. But to who?
"You're hair, it was so pretty."
"You're long pretty, dirty blonde hair. What happened to it?"
My long pretty hair.
No.
Not mine. The hair on my head. The shinny dirty blonde. The stuff I'd tuck deep in a beanie when no one was looking. The stuff that hunted me. That wasn't mine. The long pretty hair was the problem.
Until one night. Home alone. Alone. 14 years old. Done with this long "pretty" hair. This wasn't me. I want to gone. It all gone. Tears sting my eyes. My "pretty" hair. The buzzing of my dad's razor in the back ground. "Bzzzzz" it range. Goodbye. Long pretty hair. Going up the side of my head, hair dropped like flies. Soon all that was left, a long section on the top. Chopping it off with kitchen scissors. Until it only stood about 3 inches tall. I combed it over with my fingers into the perfect looking cut.
Got tears run down my face. A releasing feeling excepts me. I smile at myself. Seeing the tears of happiness fall down my cheeks into the sea of chopped off ends. They almost seem like bodies after a war. Freedom was declared on the nation. The nation being me and my emotions. I mess with the remaining hair. Brushing the sides and back up and down, feeling but little difference with each stroke.
I smile a big smile. Clean up the hair on the floor. Free from what I thought I was to stay away from. Freedom. Thank god. For this freedom from the trap that my myself.
But I wasn't. Satisfied. The look of me. My body. It was still in captivity. My brain. The thing controlling the battle wasn't agreeing with the battle plans. Change had to be made.
And change it will.
