Intersections, Thunderstorms and No Sense of Direction

Pixie Cut

The hairdresser looked unsure as we both stared at the result, and I could see why. With my chubby cheeks and almond eyes, the boyish hairstyle didn't suit me as they did on the foreign models. Nevertheless, I still smiled at my reflection and thanked the salon for their work.

I felt the wind run through my hair and brush down my neck. It was a new experience and it felt exhilarating. I rushed home with a bounce in my step.

And when I get home I would slam the door open, loudly annoucing my arrival, my brother would snap his head up from the game he was playing. He would raise an eyebrow then brush it off, focusing back on the 16:9 screen in front of him.

My sister would have more of a verbal reaction, gasping loudly and chattering away how it was a shame for my beautiful long hair and sighs and grumbles, and I would merely laugh.

And my parents eyes would be blown wide and my mother would start fretting and my father start wondering and I would sigh in exasperation. I would have to explain that no, I didn't go through a bad break-up and yes, I'm still straight because cutting off 10 inches didn't mean that something has changed.

And just because the tips of my hair ends above my earlobes doesn't mean I have to go skateboarding or play soccer with the guys or wear sneakers. I can still wear frilly dresses and eat pink macaroons and enjoy romance movies.

Because my hair isn't my identity.

And a few days later when I meet up with my friends, their jaws would drop and they would circle me, examining me from all angles before snickering good-naturedly and saying it suits me.

And they wouldn't be lying (they never did) because they wouldn't be referring to my appearance, but my personality. My curiosity. My impulsiveness. My freedom.

Me.