I cried as the scissors closed in. The barber kept glancing at me in the mirror, as if silently asking for permission he knew he’d never get. But he cut anyway. Not because he wanted to—but because my mother wouldn’t stop demanding more.
The people in the shop watched in silence. Nobody spoke up. But I could feel their eyes following every lock of hair that hit the floor. When it was done, I looked in the mirror and saw someone I didn’t recognize.
My hair was gone. But so was a piece of my confidence.
The Silence That Followed
Outside, my mom said nothing. She pulled me toward the bus stop like nothing had happened. I stared down at the sidewalk, memorizing the cracks. My scalp tingled in the cool air. Every step home felt like a funeral march for the girl I used to be.
That night, I stared at my reflection for hours. I didn’t see strength or character—I saw a stranger.
At school the next day, the whispers started. Some kids laughed. A few looked away in pity. One boy I secretly liked covered his mouth to hide a giggle. I wanted to disappear.
My Hair Wasn’t Just Hair
When you’re young, certain things feel like armor. For me, it was my long, flowing hair. It made me feel feminine, protected. It gave me something to hide behind when I didn’t know who I was yet.
Without it, I felt naked. Exposed. Like every insecurity I had was suddenly on display.
“It’s just hair,” people said. “It’ll grow back.”
