#9

The buzz of the razor felt louder as the clippers got closer to my head. I held them up, straight above me, elbows locked, for a few seconds. A power stance of liberation. My arms started to get tired, so I turned off the razor and rested my arms on the bathroom counter in front of me. The mirror needed to be cleaned. The whole bathroom did, for that matter.

Maybe my hair was too long to start with the razor. I took the dull pair of scissors I kept in the drawer to trim bandagesĀ and wielded them against my black hair. It was about the length of the bottom of my shoulder blades, sometimes feeling much longer, especially when I found a hair between my butt cheeks or got it caught in the car window or stuck in my armpits when I raised my arms.

Snip. Snip snip snip. I didn’t let myself look up until I my hair was so short I couldn’t see it anymore.

Oh.

I couldn’t speak. Just Oh. Short, violent spikes of misshapen hair stuck out at all angles from my skull. There was only one way to fix it.

Buzz. Buzz buzz buzz. The back of my neck itched, my legs itched, my arms burned, my face itched, slivers of fresh hair stuck to every vertical inch of me.

Straightening my back, I brushed the stray hairs off of my skin with a towel, glaring back at the reflection before me. Naked. Hairless. Terrified.

I am new.

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