The Haircut

The snip of silver scissors, the buzz of a razor. The hair falling in wisps to the ground, blowing in the currents of the air conditioner blasting on a level much higher than it needs to be. The light feeling of hair disappearing from the place it’s rested for years. The soft sound of running water, the warm feeling of it dripping down your neck, the strong fingers washing away the old parts that you didn’t like and pulling in the real you that’s been hiding for too long.

A double undercut hairstyle, shaved on the sides and in the back, with bangs parted to the left, cutting off just below the eye. Messy, dangerous, sexy. A big change from the long locks. A good change, a really necessary change. The design being etched into your head, criss-crossing lines that seem to describe your journey through life, consistently complicated, ever overlapping, always connected to something, someone, no matter how much you don’t want it to be. The whining of the blow dryer, the slide of the comb. The swish of the smock being pulled back, sending the last few strands of hair to the ground.

Here, you can be yourself, away from the judging eyes of your mother, and questioning stares of your father. Here you can grab her hand and dance in the street lights, and no one can tell you it's wrong, because God made you this way. And here that’s okay.