Snip Snip

     If I were to open the car door and jump out right now, I don’t think it would be too fatal. I mean, I’d walk away with a few cuts and scrapes but nothing too noticeable. Anything would be better than reaching my destination and losing the one thing in my life that helps me feel a little less different. All of the girls in my class have like these super flowy, gorgeous  manes of hair. Since I’m the only black girl, my skin already makes me stand out enough. I don’t need my hair to set me apart too. I mean, I’ve never had beautiful tresses of wavy locs, but hot combs and chemical relaxers have prevented my hair from being too kinky and too coarse. My hair does NOT need to be cut. Once the split ends (most of my hair) are removed from my hair, I’ll be left with my kinky coils and secure the position as ugliest girl in my eighth grade class. Actually, my hair will be so short that I might be mistaken for the ugliest boy in my class.

            To make the situation worse, as my dad drives me to my doom, he explains exactly how he thinks the hairdresser should end my chances of ever being one of the normal girls. 

            My dad says, “It would be pretty cool if they could cut a cool design into the back of your hair, eh. My sister got a cut like that once and it was beautiful.” A design on my head?!? A style like that might be cool in the middle of nowhere Zimbabwe, but not in America. Plus, it’s also a super tacky look. I appreciate the suggestion, but my father does not exactly have the fashion gene. 

           I respond, “Maybe. May you please ask the hairdresser to not cut too much off?” 

           “Don’t worry. A nice, long cut is exactly what you need.” Wow. Might as well snip off my fingers instead of my hair. It’ll have the same effect. “Every time I give you a pat your head after a soccer game, I feel like I’m petting a shedding dog. Your hair is not too healthy.” An image of my father with devil horns pops in my head. Did he seriously just compare me to a dog? Is there still enough time for me to fling myself out of the car… .

            “Alright, what style are we going for today?” the hairdresser asks. As I open my mouth to respond, my father jumps in. 

             “Something short. She needs the damaged bits off.”

            “Is the what you want, hun?” This is my chance. I peer up from the swivel chair at my dad then back at the hairdresser. To most, it seems as if my father is just smiling, but I know better. The look he shoots me tells me that I have no other option. The ounce of confidence I had held only a second before disappears, and I turn my face towards the ground. 

            “Yup.” The stylist proceeds to wash my hair to prepare for the procedure. As the hot water and shampoo combine to form the lather that I usually enjoy, I struggle to bite back tears. Luckily, no one notices them since they blend in with the water from the sink. 

            Like a butcher grinds his knives to achieve the sharpest cut, the hairdresser runs her scissors against the edge of a pointy razor. While a butcher removes the unwanted bits from an animal, the stylist is preparing to take away a part of me that I believe to be completely essential. I know the hair is damaged and will probably fall off anyway, but the length it provides helps me fit in with my female classmates. 

            As I watch my hair fall to the unnaturally white salon floor, I wish I could say I realize that hair does not determine my value as a person. I wish I could come to the conclusion that a haircut does not dictate how beautiful I am and that inner beauty is what’s really important. I wish that I could love the curls that make me  me. I wish that now, as a senior in high school, I could understand that there is absolutely nothing wrong with my hair and come to love myself no matter how much of it there is on my head.