Liberation~*~

I cut my hair a week and some change ago, a real, blunt, shoulder-length cut. Not a trim. I've only ever always trimmed my hair. It wasn't born out of some vain desire for amelioration. It was a decision that was two years in the making; I've always wanted to but never felt I'd pull it off, or felt that I'd miss my hair too much. Then, oh how poetic, the last thursday of the decade, the desire overwhelmed me. I will cut my hair. I will cut it short. I will tell no one about it. I will take no opinions.

But because it was 3AM, I couldn't very well do it then and there. So I waited till the morning, I called the salon and the hairdresser of choice only came in on saturday, so I book an appointment, make some excuse and leave the house. They wash my hair and I sit there, killing time, not feeling any hint of guilt or remorse, hesitation or worry.
I see her reflection as she walks from customer to customer, and she begins to walk towards me. I watch her determined strides, and as she stands behind me, she asks, "How should I cut it?"
"To here," I motion a bit above my shoulders.
"Just there?"
"Yeah."
"Just a blunt cut."
I nod.
She parts it, brushes it, and holding it in her hand, she chops it off. And nothing. I felt no sadness. This coming from the girl who chokes up at the thought of getting too much cut off with a trim. I peer at the strands in her hands, and I say, "shorter."
She takes a little more off, and the only sensation I felt was joy. It was all I could do to not burst from laughter. I could feel the giggles wave through my body. Biting my lip, I had to compose myself. Three minutes later, she's done. She quickly dries it, and I look at myself, and I feel indifferent to the face, the hair. I only feel free.

I've never, in my life, made an absolutely autonomic decision. Everything was shaped by someone else: where I go, when I go, how I dress, where I study, how I live. And not just by figures of authority, friends, siblings -and to do something so drastic (because yes, cutting your hair without telling your mother is drastic) was so liberating. It's a little symbol, to my parents mainly, that although they can control so much, there is little they can't control. I know it sounds menial and petty, but goodness, this felt good.

I get into the car and put my hair up in a bun, and when I see my mother at home, I say, "I did something."
"What?" she asks, flustered.
"I did something crazy. you can't yell at me for it."
"What?!"
I take my hair out of the bun and shake it out.
With gobsmacked eyes, she whispers, "but why?"
I shrug.
"But it was so pretty," she continues.
"It'll grow back."