I stare into my own eyes. I don’t recognize the person in the reflection. Her eyes are cold, hard. Her mouth is determined. I understand that I’m viewing myself, and yet there's a sense of detachment. My hair lies against my shoulders, not coiled enough to be curly, not flat enough to be straight, and too bushy to be wavy. The Kool-Aid I used in a halfhearted attempt to dye the tips is nearly washed out. My eyes are nice, at least. Green. My mom says when I was a baby, before I even had this stupid hair, strangers would compliment them. I’ve always thought that was weird, but I guess a compliment is a compliment. My eyes fall back onto my hair, and I watch as my reflection holds up a pair of plastic kiddie scissors. The handles are an obnoxious pink. I, she, we, select a strand of hair.
As I hold the scissors, I think back to my pet dog in fourth grade. He was pretty stupid, though I still loved him. Once, as an experiment, my mom put him in front of my sister's mirror. He stared at it. Then he wagged his tail and barked. When his reflection barked in unison, he paused. He cocked his head one way, then the other. I stared at the reflection of his little doggy eyes as his little doggy brain scrambled to make a little doggy answer. I saw in them the lack of recognition, how without smells or sounds coming from this image, this stranger was just another dog, and more importantly, a dog that wasn’t playing with him. I stare into my own little girl eyes, seeing that same hollowness that I saw in his.
I readjust my grip on the scissors, far too small for my fingers, and glance at the clock. It’s 1:30 a.m. I know in the daylight I’d never be able to do this. But it’s not daylight. I bring the blades together. Snip. What a cold, clear sound. I look down at the strand of hair in my hand, almost in disbelief. I’m tempted to keep it. Instead, I let it fall into the trash can, and look back at the girl in the mirror. You can barely tell it’s gone. I’m tempted just to stop now, stop thinking about it, push away my weariness, keep the hair I’ve had for so long. But I know I can't give up now. Or maybe I just think I can't. And really, what's the difference? I grasp another strand, this one with dye at the tips, and cut.
Snip. Snip. Snip. Slowly, my head gets lighter. I’m barely looking in the mirror at this point. The trash can’s bottom is covered. I catch the eyes of the girl in the mirror once again. I stare at them. Do I really look so emotionless? So empty? What happened to that bright and shiny-eyed baby? When I can’t bear the eyes boring into me any longer, I allow — maybe even force — myself to look at my hair. It’s a mess. But it’s my mess.
I pick up the scissors again and cut some more, this time looking, carefully selecting strands, trying to make it look nice. Maybe I should have done some research, but I might have lost my nerve. So I just do the best I can to make it even. I stare in the mirror for a little longer, then shake my head, both to feel the hair moving and as a reaction to how I look. I know who the person I see is now, but I’m not sure I like her all that much. Panic starts to set in. What will my mom think? What will my friends think? I sit down and lean against the wall, and run my fingers through my hair. It feels good — soft and fluffy. I pull the trash can toward me and stare at its contents, still processing.
After a few minutes, I set the trash can back in its place as quietly as I can. Waking up the rest of the house is the last thing I want right now.
I stand up, and take a deep breath in and let it out again. It feels like I haven’t been breathing for the last few minutes. Or maybe the last few years. I take another breath, then look in the mirror.
I look over my whole face, spending a second looking at each feature, pausing on my eyes before finally settling on my hair. I look okay, I guess. My eyes still seem cold. My hair has settled into something vaguely resembling a style, more curly than I ever knew it could be. I’m calm again. But this time, I think it’s true calm, not just the void that filled me before.
I give a tentative smile to the face in the mirror, and she smiles back. No. I smile back.
As I hold the scissors, I think back to my pet dog in fourth grade. He was pretty stupid, though I still loved him. Once, as an experiment, my mom put him in front of my sister's mirror. He stared at it. Then he wagged his tail and barked. When his reflection barked in unison, he paused. He cocked his head one way, then the other. I stared at the reflection of his little doggy eyes as his little doggy brain scrambled to make a little doggy answer. I saw in them the lack of recognition, how without smells or sounds coming from this image, this stranger was just another dog, and more importantly, a dog that wasn’t playing with him. I stare into my own little girl eyes, seeing that same hollowness that I saw in his.
I readjust my grip on the scissors, far too small for my fingers, and glance at the clock. It’s 1:30 a.m. I know in the daylight I’d never be able to do this. But it’s not daylight. I bring the blades together. Snip. What a cold, clear sound. I look down at the strand of hair in my hand, almost in disbelief. I’m tempted to keep it. Instead, I let it fall into the trash can, and look back at the girl in the mirror. You can barely tell it’s gone. I’m tempted just to stop now, stop thinking about it, push away my weariness, keep the hair I’ve had for so long. But I know I can't give up now. Or maybe I just think I can't. And really, what's the difference? I grasp another strand, this one with dye at the tips, and cut.
Snip. Snip. Snip. Slowly, my head gets lighter. I’m barely looking in the mirror at this point. The trash can’s bottom is covered. I catch the eyes of the girl in the mirror once again. I stare at them. Do I really look so emotionless? So empty? What happened to that bright and shiny-eyed baby? When I can’t bear the eyes boring into me any longer, I allow — maybe even force — myself to look at my hair. It’s a mess. But it’s my mess.
I pick up the scissors again and cut some more, this time looking, carefully selecting strands, trying to make it look nice. Maybe I should have done some research, but I might have lost my nerve. So I just do the best I can to make it even. I stare in the mirror for a little longer, then shake my head, both to feel the hair moving and as a reaction to how I look. I know who the person I see is now, but I’m not sure I like her all that much. Panic starts to set in. What will my mom think? What will my friends think? I sit down and lean against the wall, and run my fingers through my hair. It feels good — soft and fluffy. I pull the trash can toward me and stare at its contents, still processing.
After a few minutes, I set the trash can back in its place as quietly as I can. Waking up the rest of the house is the last thing I want right now.
I stand up, and take a deep breath in and let it out again. It feels like I haven’t been breathing for the last few minutes. Or maybe the last few years. I take another breath, then look in the mirror.
I look over my whole face, spending a second looking at each feature, pausing on my eyes before finally settling on my hair. I look okay, I guess. My eyes still seem cold. My hair has settled into something vaguely resembling a style, more curly than I ever knew it could be. I’m calm again. But this time, I think it’s true calm, not just the void that filled me before.
I give a tentative smile to the face in the mirror, and she smiles back. No. I smile back.